What My Son Taught Me at the Interview Table

Mom’s important work

choc chip melties in a jar

cookies, I chose you

A Beautiful Mind. That’s what I’ve come to call the way my son moves through the world—curious, vivid, and completely unfiltered. I can’t say it’s all rainbows and stars, but in this instance, it was the aurora. He has AuDHD, you see.

During a recent teaching job interview, he sat beside me—invited by the interviewer to do so. At one point, as I was deep in discussion, he chimed in and asked with full sincerity about something in front of him: a jar of cookies. That moment, unexpected and pure, cracked something open in me—and in that room. What could’ve been seen as a disruption was instead embraced. And I have no doubt in my mind that it helped me get the job.

I hadn’t expected to feel welcomed, not really. Like many single mothers—especially those raising neurodivergent children—I’ve grown used to shrinking parts of myself to fit into professional spaces. I arrived at the interview carrying not just my portfolio, but the quiet weight of every rejection and every place that had made me feel like I had to overly compromise.

But from the moment we stepped in, there was no sigh, no side-glance—only kindness. They smiled at my son. They offered to sit us together.

The interview itself was going well, but I was still bracing for the moment it might turn. Then, it happened. Midway through answering a question, my son leaned slightly forward and said with utmost politeness and urgency,

“Excuse me, are these chocolate cookies?”—eyes fixed on the table, then up at the interviewer.

Time slowed. I froze for a split second, unsure whether to hush him, laugh, or apologise. But before I could speak, the interviewer chuckled warmly and replied,

“Yes, would you like one?”

And just like that, the tension dissolved. He nodded and munched happily while I answered the rest of the questions—still a little stunned, but more myself than I had felt in years. It was in that quiet chaos, with my son beside me and crumbs on the table, that something clicked.

This was not just about employment. This was about being seen.

After the formalities, I can't help but ask about the mock teaching - every teacher candidate would expect one. The interviewer smiled and said,

“No. I can tell you’re a good teacher.”

No lesson demo. No elaborate test. Just trust.

He mentioned I could start next week and reaffirmed that if I needed to bring my son, there would be space for him.

“He can sit with me,” he said, “or I’ll bring him downstairs for coffee. Or tea.”

I nodded, holding back the lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes. I felt something loosened in my chest. For the first time in a while, it felt like we weren’t being tolerated—we were being invited in.

As we were walking down the stairs and back to the car, I cried a little. Quietly. Not from another frustration this time—but relief. My son noticed, of course. He’s always noticing. And I think he understood in his own way that something important had happened—not just for me, but for us. For our future.

That day, my son taught me that presence is enough. That joy, even in the middle of “important” things, has a place. And that sometimes, the world makes room—not despite who we are, but because of it. His beautiful mind reminded me of what matters most.

He reached for cookies

I, for us, reached for courage

and the world reached back