At four and a half years old, my son read. I did not learn the alphabet. We lived in the dormitory then. The walls are painted and painted, as in all parade houses. Every time I went down the stairs, Goshka pointed to me a letter with the question, “What is your name?”



On the way to the metro was built a highway, flanked by a high fence of shields. On one of the shields, with large letters with a height almost from the son, was written an inappropriate word. It was good that the zebra was nearby and I hurried to move Goska across the road. For a week we studied the wall booklet, and I did not suspect that at the end of the day, a child will still put together the booklets and give the word. At least not so early. It happened literally in a week. Also, in an accelerated pace, she moved her son by the hand across the road. There were a lot of people on the street, everyone was in a hurry to do their business. And suddenly the air shakes: “Mom, I read. This is Dharma.”



You can’t imagine how I wanted to fail at this moment in the ground. People forgot where they went. Everyone looked at the young reader. Later, the son on the walls of the hostel already knew that Masha "does not give" Sasha and that Tsoy was alive.