“Is okay we start slow today?” I ask, forcing myself to practice my English. “Maybe you tell me what makes morning busy?”
She blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “I… had a phone call from my parents. They’re… concerned about my research timeline.”
The way she says “concerned” tells me everything I need to know about that conversation.
“They think you waste time here?”
“They think I’m…” She pauses, and her fingers begin a subtle tapping pattern—thumb to each finger in sequence, over and over. “That I’m not following proper research protocols. That my methods are questionable.”
Ah. Parents who don’t understand what she’s trying to accomplish. Not cruel—just from a world where rules matter more than people.
“But your work here is serious, yes? You ask important questions, write down important things.”
“To them, you’re all just… research subjects who need proper academic handling.” She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Is okay. Many people think this.”
She winces. “Yes, but that’s not what I think.”
“I know. But is whattheythink.” Her fingers are still tapping. In theludus, Gaius used to do something similar when memories pressed too close.
I wait a moment instead of filling the silence. Some things needed space before they could be named.
“Their words make you tired inside.”
Her composure cracks. “They think I’m… drifting off the traditional path.” “My father even said the work might look ‘unstructured’ from the outside. That studying gladiators without a familiar framework could make colleagues question my direction and methods.”
She presses her lips together, the movement quick and involuntary, as if more words slipped out than she wanted.
“They want to make sure I’m on solid ground,” she says softly. “They trust Dr. Blackwell, but they’re unsure about the setting—the sanctuary, the subject matter. My parents worry it doesn’t look as traditional as my other work. But my mentor says my approach is innovative, even ‘methodologically promising.’”
Her voice wavers slightly. “My parents always want the best for me, but… they still manage to make me doubt myself, even when IknowI’m doing good work.”
They love her, but they speak a language built from old academic walls—walls she keeps trying to climb. They don’t see that she is stronger, sharper, steadier than they think.
Her pain lands like a weight in my chest. “What else they say?”
She’s quiet for a moment, her breathing too controlled, like she’s holding herself together by force.
“They think I should be doing more traditional work,” she admits. “Something familiar. Something they recognize as safe. They’re trying to help, I know they are… it just doesn’tfeellike help sometimes.”
There it is.The real wound. Not judgment—fear. Fear planted by people she loves. Fear she’ll reach too far and fall.
“Is very hard,” I say quietly, then switch to Latin to better explain what I mean, “when people who should support you make you feel small instead.”
She looks up sharply, and I see recognition flash in her eyes. Like she’s surprised I understand exactly what this feels like.
“Yes. Exactly that.”
I lean forward, using the same gentle tone I used with scared fighters in theludus. “In training school, they told us we werenothing. Just meat for the arena. But some of us knew that wasn’t true. We knew we were more than what they saw.”
Her tapping slows slightly. “How did you handle it? Being told you were worthless?”
“Prove them wrong in small ways. Every day. Be smarter than they think, kinder than they expect, stronger than they believe.” I pause. “And find people who see truth, not just surface?”
“Surface,” she agrees softly.
“You see the truth about us. You ask questions that matter; you listen with respect. To me, that’s a big change. Maybe even a…” I switch to English, “revolution.”
