Just going to point out, that I have no direct experience of Dyslexia, and have got this all this from reading and watching videos about it, so I might have got it totally wrong, which I apologise for if I have.

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"Do you have any homework Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what you have to do?"

"Yeah. Times tables."

"You need to try some reading today."

"Daaaad."

"I know Sam. But you didn't do any yesterday. Come on. I'll make a cuppa and we can go sit on the sofa."

"But-"

"We won't even read a whole story mate. Just a few pages."

"M'kay".

.

Ten minutes later, they are both sitting on the sofa, steaming cups of tea on the coffee table, with the nine year old leaning into his father's side.

"What book did you choose then kiddo?" Sam points at a Thomas The Tank book mutely and James opened it up to the inside cover. "You want to read the little foreword first then?" A silent nod and James hands him the book. Sam flattens it and lays it on James' lap. He takes a deep breath and then he starts, positioning his finger under the first word.

"Tuh...Thomas and his...fri-ends have lots of...um...er...ah-duh-vuh-ee-en-tuh-uh-ruh-ee-sss." Sam frowns and sounds it out again, before shaking his head and looking up at Hathaway. "What does that say Dad?"

"Look at the rest of the sentence mate. What do you think Thomas has lots of that you can read about?"

"Track?"

"...Well technically yeah. But the books aren't about track are they?"

"Adventures!"

"Well done. Go on, read that bit again."

"Ad-ven-tures...adventures. Which you can ree-ad abo-about in this..seer-eyes. No...series."

"You're getting better at correcting yourself mate." James smiles but Sam just frowns again.

"I wouldn't need to correct myself if I didn't mess it up in the first place."

"You're allowed to make mistakes Sam, no one's telling you that you have to be perfect. Come on, page one." Sam mutters something that James doesn't quite catch, but he dutifully turns the page and puts his finger under the word once again.

"It was a...bee...morn. Oh! Beautiful morning on the...is-land of Sodor...Um...Thomas the tank...ee. Um...Engine?" James nods in encouragement, although he's not sure if Sam read that or just guessed. "Er..where was I?"

"There." James says, pointing to the next word in the sentence.

"Blue. Pa-int. Paint...blue paint sp-ark-led...spark-led..sparkled in the...s-sun shine as he...puh. Puh-ff-eed. Puffed? Happily along the...branch line with his co-a...coaches. Annie and Cla...um...cla-ruh-buh-ell. Clarra...Um..."

"Clarabel."

"Stupid name." Sam mumbles and James gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"You're doing great kiddo."

"Thomas made...good time and...soon...arriv...arrived at the suh-ta-tie-oh-nuh. I don't know."

"Where are trains likely to arrive?"

"At stations?"

"Yep. Split the word up eh? Like the lady at school taught you." Sam puts his finger over half the word and tries again.

"St-ay-ti...no. Stay-shun. It doesn't look like it sounds."

"No, the English language is a bit tricky like that. Carry on Sammy, you're doing well"

They continue for another ten minutes until Sam gets to the word 'tremendous' and loses his temper. He slings the book across the room where it lands on the floor by the telly.

"Kiddo, its okay-"

"NO ITS NOT! I CAN'T DO IT!" The boy stands up, fists clenched, and he's shaking slightly with frustration. James is immediately up off the sofa, and pulling him close.

"Hey. Hey, its alright. Come on now,its okay."

"Its not Dad. Its not." Sam sniffs. "Everyone else in my class is reading books like this;" he holds up his thumb and forefinger, showing an inch and a half gap between them. "I'm still reading Thomas the Tank engine."

"It doesn't make you any less clever."

"Does."

"No Sam it doesn't." He looks at the nine year old and sighs, squeezing the boy's shoulders gently. Sam has had his dyslexia explained to him. He knows that its a processing disorder. But he still seems to find it hard to accept that its not his fault and it doesn't make him any less of anything. "That's enough for today yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam says sadly.

"Tell you what, we'll drive out and get chips for dinner. Sound good?"

"Yeah." He pauses and then looks shyly up at his father. "Can I have chicken nuggets?"

"Don't see why not."

"Thanks Dad." James ruffles his hair.

"Can't beat chips on a Friday."

"Are we gonna watch a Friday film?"

"Of course we are Sam. Go and choose one eh?"

.

They eat their chips, and James notices Sam doing a good job of pretending that he's no longer bothered by what happened earlier. A good job, but not good enough; not to his father. This is only confirmed in James' mind when Sam selects The Iron Giant as the film he wants to watch, after he gets into his pyjamas. Its always been something he returns to when he's not happy and James can see through it straight away.

"You've got a chocolate bar in the fridge mate. We could have a cup of tea and chocolate with the film." Sam nods his agreement and James gets up, limping into the kitchen to stick the kettle on. He grabs Sam's chocolate bar from the fridge and takes it in to the young boy, before heading back to prepare the tea.

Once the tea is made, he carries it back through to the living room, wincing a little as his knee protests. As he sets the tea down, he notices that Sam's chocolate bar hasn't moved from where he put it a few minutes earlier. That is very out of character for the kid, he'd live on chocolate if James would let him. Just as he's contemplating this, he hears a barely audible sniff from his son. Nonetheless, that's what it is and Sam has turned away from him slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothin'" That sentence couldn't have sounded any less convincing if Sam had tried.

"Come on kiddo. Tell me what's wrong. I can't make it better if I don't know what it is, can I?"

"You can't make it better anyway."

"Sam..."

"I...I'm..." Sam struggles for the words he wants briefly, refusing to make eye contact with his Dad. "I'm glad Mum can't see me read cos she'd be ashamed." The boy blurts out in a rush, before bringing his knees up and hugging them tight. For a moment, James is completely lost for words. He doesn't understand how the kid could think that, James knows he's never given any impression that that would be true.

"Of course she wouldn't Sam. Your Mum loved you."

"Didn't have to read and write when I was little. She didn't know."

"Kiddo, Mum would have loved you whether or not you could read, talk, walk or speak. It wouldn't have made a difference to her if you could never write anything, or if you were writing novels before you were two."

"That's not what they say at school."

"What do they know? I bet there are kids in your class that can't draw, or can't do maths."

"Yeah but everyone finds maths hard, no one teases them." James feels angry that the select few kids in Sam's class that seem to be teasing his son, also seem to be getting away with it. Suddenly, a thought occurs to James. Something that makes his gut twist.

"You don't think I'm ashamed of you, do you Sammy?" Sam shrugs and looks away.

"Maybe a little bit. Like deep down."

"No." James says, and he's startled by the vehemence of his statement. He gently turns his son's head so they make eye contact. "Look at me son. I will never be ashamed of you. Not ever. You got that?"

"Even if I never get past Thomas the Tank Engine?"

"Even then. Although that isn't an excuse to stop trying. But I will always love you, even if you never read another letter in your whole, entire life. Your Mum loved you. I love you and Uncle Robbie loves you, and we always will, regardless of what you can read or write. Yeah?" Sam nods, but his eyes well up and he leans in to James' side a bit.

"Ms Danby keeps making me read out loud." Sam says quietly, and before he knows it, the kid is crying and James has his arms around him.

"Oh Sammy, I'm sorry mate."

"She says I'm not trying Dad. And I am. I can't try any harder."

"I know. I know how hard you're trying kiddo. Does this teacher know you're dyslexic?" Sam shrugs and James sincerely hope she doesn't know, because otherwise, she's using his son's learning difficulty to humiliate him into working harder. And regardless if she does know or not, how the ever-loving-fuck is Sam supposed to learn to cope, when the very thing he's struggling with is being used as a tool to tease him in front of his peers?

"Do you want me to talk to her at parents evening?" There's one coming up, he thinks its next week. This needs to be sorted out, and its taking a lot of effort on his part not to be furious. But furious isn't going to help Sam right at this minute.

"I don't know Dad. She might not believe you. She only has us for one lesson a week, the rest of the time we have Mr Stevens." James knows this, he also knows that Sam likes Mr Stevens, and that he was the one who first flagged up to them that Sam might have a problem.

"We've got the doctors letter Sammy. I'll bring it with me okay? Maybe the school just didn't explain properly. Have you ever told her about being dyslexic?"

"No." Sam mumbles. "I thought she'd think I was lying."

"Come here little man." He pulls Sam onto his lap and lets the little boy curl into him. Any other time, and Sam would be protesting. I'm not a baby Dad. You don't sit on your Dad's lap when you're nine! But when he's upset or scared, all that goes out the window. "Don't worry mate, we'll get this all sorted out. I promise. How about you grab the chocolate bar and we sit and enjoy the film eh?"

"Okay. One sec though, I'm not ready." Sam scrambles off James' lab and runs up to his room. He comes back down clutching Fluffy, and snagging the quilt from the armchair as he goes past. Then he proceeds to clamber back onto James' lap and snuggle in, pulling the blanket around them both. James smiles softly at this, and squeezes the little boy before picking up the remote control.

"You comfy there? Shall I press play then?"

.

Sam falls asleep before the film is over, and James just sits where he is for a little while, appreciating the contact, knowing that Sam will grow out of this all too quickly. After a few minutes, he levers himself up and slowly carries the little boy to bed, grateful that Sam already has his pyjamas on.

He tucks the kid into his covers, and sees how Sam's face is smooth and devoid of worry for the first time since he came home from school that afternoon. James takes one last look at the sleeping child, before bending down and kissing his son on the forehead.

"Sleep well Sammy boy," He says quietly, before taking his leave, and heading off to his own bed.