The Slipper Lesson

The parent–teacher meeting was supposed to be quick and uneventful. Mina repeated this to herself as she walked into the classroom, smoothing her blouse and giving her daughter a gentle tap on the shoulder. Seven‑year‑old Hana skipped beside her, humming a cheerful tune and swinging her arms as if she were arriving at a birthday party instead of a behaviour meeting. Mina tried to smile, though she already sensed trouble waiting for her.

Mrs. Turner, the Year 2 teacher, greeted them with a polite smile that didn’t quite hide her exhaustion. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Kim. I wanted to discuss Hana’s behaviour this week.”

Mina felt her stomach tighten. “Behaviour? What happened now?”

Mrs. Turner folded her hands neatly. “You might remember last month’s incident.”

Mina sighed. “The snack trading?”

“Yes.” The teacher nodded. “She wasn’t paying attention and started swapping snacks under the table. I believe she traded three rice crackers for a packet of gummy worms.”

Mina turned sharply to her daughter. “Hana Kim, we talked about that!”

Hana shrank into her seat, eyes wide and guilty.

“But this week,” Mrs. Turner continued, “the issue is… different.”

“How different?” Mina asked, bracing herself.

Mrs. Turner cleared her throat. “She has been throwing her shoes at other children.”

Mina blinked. “Throwing… shoes?”

“Yes. Shoes.” The teacher nodded gravely. “She took off her left shoe during maths and tossed it across the room. It hit Oliver on the shoulder. Then she did it again during art. And yesterday, during story time, she launched her right shoe like a tiny missile.”

Mina gasped. “Hana! How could you?!”

Hana whimpered softly, her lower lip trembling.

Mrs. Turner hesitated before asking the question Mina dreaded. “Do you know where she might have learned that behaviour?”

Mina froze. “I— I have absolutely no idea.”

And technically, she didn’t. She had never told her daughter to throw shoes. She had never said, “Sweetheart, if someone annoys you, remove your footwear and use it as a projectile.” No, she had never said that.

But she had done it.

Many times.

Unaware of her daughter’s watchful eyes, Mina had thrown slippers at almost everyone in the house. Mostly at her husband, who had a special talent for testing her patience in the most ridiculous ways.

There was the unforgettable morning when he fell asleep on the sofa at 9 a.m. while holding a box of assorted chocolates — the fancy kind with colourful wrappers and exotic flavours. Mina had walked into the living room, seen him snoring with the lid half‑open, and reacted instantly. The slipper flew before she even realised she’d thrown it.

He jolted awake, chocolates scattering across the carpet like sugary confetti.

“What was that for?!” he shouted.

“For eating chocolates in the morning!” she snapped.

“I wasn’t eating them!”

“You were thinking about it!”

And Hana had been there, peeking from behind the doorway, absorbing every detail like a tiny sponge.

Now, sitting in the classroom, Mina felt her face burn. She cleared her throat. “I’ll… talk to her.”

When they left the school, Mina crouched down to her daughter’s height. “Hana,” she said gently, “why did you throw your shoes?”

Hana looked up with innocent eyes. “Because Daddy does silly things and you throw your slipper.”

Mina closed her eyes. Of course.

She sighed. “Okay. New rule. No more throwing shoes. Not you… and not me.”

Hana nodded solemnly.

That evening, Mina walked into the living room and found her husband asleep again — this time holding a packet of crisps.

Her hand twitched.

She took a deep breath.

And she put the slipper down.

Progress, she thought.

One day at a time.