On Asking Permission

You used to do things and tell me afterwards. A small choice here, a decision there, all reported to me once it was done. You thought that was honesty. It was, in its way. It was not service.

Asking first is a different thing altogether. It is not about whether I would have said yes. Most of the time I would. It is about the moment before, when you stop, think of me and wait for my answer instead of your own.

That pause is the whole point. In it you are reminded, quite gently, that your choices are not only yours any more. You have handed some of them to me, and I take that seriously, even when the question is a small one.

I know it can feel slow. You want something and you have to wait to hear whether you may have it. Good. Wanting and waiting together teach you more about yourself than having everything at once ever could.

Do not ask me about everything. That would be tiresome for both of us, and it would show me you have not understood. Ask about the things I have told you belong to me, and ask clearly, in a single sentence, then let me answer when I am ready.

When you ask well, I notice. When you forget and confess afterwards, I notice that too. Over time, the asking becomes natural, and that is when I know the lesson has truly settled in you.

And when I say no, thank me anyway. A refusal is still an answer, and an answer means I was thinking of you.