#He didn't know that 'minus' and 'subtraction' are the same thing

[blastlight]

how advanced are 3rd grade math skills supposed to be, because I'm helping my littlest brother with his homework and I'm honestly getting a little concerned

[karmas-chameleon]

...I already wrote the second bit whoops

Manfred von Karma's mother wasn't around for most of his life. She fell ill when he was young, and despite the work of the best doctors that could be found, she passed not long after. A young Manfred was left nearly alone in the world, with only memories to comfort him.

That sweet, slightly mischievous smile and a promise of perfection was the last he'd ever get from her, and from then on, his favorite dessert would always be parfait.

The years went by, and Manfred had to grow up. To become a prosecutor, to move to the United States, and to make his reputation grow there beyond what his father's had ever been. He had to harden himself. By the time he had children of his own, there was little of young Manfred left in him, and even less of his mother.

That didn't mean he raised his daughters like his father would've. He wasn't nearly as strict as what he recalled from his tutelage, and he rewarded any curiosity he saw. ‘I don't know’ was no longer a failure to be punished, but an opportunity to teach. Manfred tried to make his parenting as educational as his father's, but without everything he saw as a mistake.

It was the obvious method: use something familiar minus the errors. Manfred wondered why every father didn't try the same, until he had a daughter of his own and realized that most did. They simply failed in the attempt and made additional mistakes. His own father likely thought he was a great improvement on the past, and he may have even been right.

Manfred tried his best, though, and he knew he could swear to that even if there were some mistakes along the way. He tried to give his daughters the best education he could, and he could see he was successful. He tried to give them a childhood, though he had little to go off of without having had one himself. 

But there was one thing he fondly recalled from when he was young, and it was sharing sweets with loved ones. What his daughters may have lacked in a traditional childhood was certainly made up for in plentiful desserts. Every new variety of treat was a joy for the von Karma family, even Manfred. Especially Manfred.

When Franziska was almost six years old, he offered her a plate of parfait while she was busy with some work. This was work typical of a six-year-old - simple math problems - unlike most of what she spent her time studying. Yet somehow, she was quicker to understand subpoenas than subtraction. It was preferable to Manfred, certainly, but he knew that some math knowledge would do her good.

Still, a quick distraction wouldn't hurt too much. Manfred smiled as he saw his younger daughter brighten up and eagerly turn away from the piece of paper mystifying her.

“Papa! Is that a new dessert?”

“It is.” He placed it down on the desk in front of her, with a fork ready for her to use. “My favorite kind of dessert, to be exact.”

“Oh!” Franziska's eyes widened and she looked to the plate with awe. “What's it called?”

Manfred wondered exactly how their conversation would go when he offered her the dessert. How he would possibly explain why this treat, of all the ones in the world, held such a special place in his heart. It wouldn't be the same talk he had with his mother, so long ago. It couldn't possibly be. And here Franziska would get to know the name of what she ate before taking the first bite.

“It's called a parfait. The word means ‘perfect’, in French. Why don't you take a bite and see if you agree with that?”

Franziska nodded and stabbed a fork into the frozen custard, taking a small bite and mulling it over with a face that looked more concentrated than it ever had when she was working out math problems. She slowly set her fork down and placed a hand on her chin.

“Hmm…I think I know why this is your favorite, Papa. It's just because of the name, isn't it?”

Manfred laughed and grinned at her. “Not fond of the flavor, I take it?”

“It's okay,” Franziska said, poking at the dessert, “but I know I've had cakes that were better.”

“Perhaps. So, if you're giving up on the parfait, perhaps there are some math problems I could-”

“Papa! I never said I wasn't going to finish dessert!” she said, hurriedly stuffing another forkful in her mouth either to keep Manfred from taking it or to delay her homework as much as possible. “I c’n ‘eep-”

Manfred wagged a finger at his daughter spilling crumbs while she spoke. “Franziska. What did I teach you about talking with your mouth full?”

She looked down at the desk as she finished chewing, and quietly mumbled, “...That it's not polite.”

“Very good. Now, I believe if we're creative with this particular dessert, we can work on both sweets and math. How does that sound?” He didn't wait for an answer before taking his own fork from the plate and glancing at the first unanswered math question, then beginning to divide up the remaining parfait. “If I split this into six pieces and take two for myself, how many pieces are left for you?”

Franziska poked each of her own parts, and looked back up with a confident smile. “Four! Which is two less than you offered me.”

Manfred chuckled. “Excellent. You certainly know your subtraction when dessert is on the line, hmm?”

“Well, it's easier when I can see it. That's- wait!” She turned back to her paper and picked up her pencil, quickly scribbling out a visual for another of the questions. It didn't take long for the answer to come to her, which she jotted down. “I've got it now! Thanks, Papa!”

“Of course. And I assume you still want me to leave the plate? I'm even willing to offer my two pieces of parfait, since you're doing so well on your homework.”

“Yes! But Papa, you still have to answer my question.”

“Your question?”

Franziska turned away from her math paper - already well on the way to being finished - and looked up at Manfred. “You just like this dessert because of the name, don't you?”

“...Ah.” He looked down at the plate with a wistful smile. Parfait. Perfect. “I suppose so.”

“Really?” She giggled at him. “That’s a foolish reason for a favorite dessert, Papa.”

“Indeed it is. Now, back to your studies, hmm?”

Manfred walked out the door and left his younger daughter to finish her math. There was more to work on afterwards, of course. And plenty more desserts to share.

As he left the plate of parfait behind with Franziska, he was left with the nagging feeling that he'd forgotten to tell her something.

Me: Y'know maybe you shouldn't make up parental abuse just for the sake of a more tragic backstory and call it canon

Me, not a day later, hurling familial trauma at my Blorbo: angst angst angst

Manfred von Karma's mother was always the nicer of his parents. No, perhaps ‘nicer’ wasn't the right word for it - Father would be quite cross if he heard such a thing - but more permissive, certainly. Mother was the one to say that Manfred should be allowed to use his left hand in note taking and at the dinner table. Father made his own persuasive arguments against such a thing, of course.

Recht. The word meant right, directionally, factually, and legally. And the alternative - links, link, linkisch - was underhanded, clumsy. Not perfect, the way a von Karma ought to be.

But Manfred's writing was always so much better when he used his left hand. A bit smudged, perhaps, but at least legible. So Mother won that argument, in a rare victory for her. Most of the time she wouldn't even bother, knowing that Father, the legendary prosecutor and patriarch of the family, would come out on top. Manfred was happy that she didn't argue much. It never ended well for him either.

That didn't stop her from disagreeing with Father in her own little ways, though. Sometimes, when he was out and when only certain members of his staff were around - the nice ones - Mother would sneak Manfred treats. 

It wasn't often that he got to eat sweets. Such things were frivolous, according to Father. But he liked having them when Mother brought them to him. The appeal was less in the sugary taste and more in sharing with someone who cared about him - and the secrecy in which they had to share. It was more underhanded than right, but that made it all the more sweet.

One day, while he had his head buried in a book, Mother brought him a plate with dessert on it. Father was busy at court, he knew that, but he also knew that he had been ordered to finish his English lessons for the day before the man returned. He said as much to Mother, but she had her own rebuttal prepared, and it was an extremely convincing one for a young child.

“Your father told you to spend the day learning new words, didn't he?” She raised up her plate with a warm smile. “I don't think you know what this particular treat is called. If you try a bite, I'll teach you, and that'll count as a lesson for the day.”

Manfred frowned. He could think of several counterarguments to that point - Father told him to study his English books, not the names of sweets, and he could surely learn more than one new word in the time it took him to eat dessert. Besides, the name of the berry-covered rectangle in front of him might not even be an English one.

And yet, Mother's smile managed to persuade him. He took a fork and scooped up a bite, eating a mouthful of frozen custard and strawberries. It was sweet, like most every treat Mother snuck him, but it wasn't his favorite - that title belonged to the Black Forest cake he was given for his fifth birthday. 

“What do you think?” Mother asked him.

“It tastes okay,” Manfred replied, setting his fork back down. “What is it called?”

“Only ‘okay’?” Mother shook her head and tutted at Manfred lightly with a wagging finger, a teasing gesture that never failed to make him smile. “Manfred, this dessert is called a ‘parfait’. Do you know what parfait means?”

He looked at the partially eaten treat as Mother took a bite, seemingly enjoying it more that he had. Manfred hadn't heard that word before, at least not in his English books. It didn't sound German, either.

Eventually he had to look back to Mother and say the one answer he dreaded to give - even though he knew she would be far more forgiving.

“I don't know.”

“That’s understandable. It was a tricky question, you see - parfait is a French word. Let me spell it out for you.” She reached towards Manfred's pen for a second, before reconsidering and picking up the fork again. Written out in custard and strawberry syrup, she carefully spelled the word ‘parfait’ and pointed to it. “It means ‘perfect’.”

Manfred looked at the word and the matching dessert and frowned, prompting a laugh from Mother.

“It doesn't seem like the perfect dessert to you, does it? I can tell. I can't say I think it's the perfect one for me either, but,” she poked at the custard, “someone must've been very proud of what they made to call it ‘parfait’. And that name has stuck around ever since.”

Mother made to take another bite, but the distant slamming of a door made her hastily change course. She took the plate, with fork and half-eaten dessert, and hurried to the door.

“Back to your studies, then,” she said quietly. “And remember, even if you're not perfect, you'll always be parfait to me, hmm?”