When Jesenia Taught Ingrid

Ingrid had cared for many children over the years, but none as inquisitive—or as digitally absorbed—as little Mateo and Lila. Their mother, Jesenia, was a professor of computer science at the local university, and their home was full of both toys and tangled cords, tablets and tinker kits, LEGOs beside laptops.

Ingrid was devoted to the children, but every time she tried to open a web browser on the family's computer, she froze. It wasn't fear exactly—it was more like respectful hesitation. Computers seemed to her a bit like wild animals: fascinating, useful, but potentially unpredictable.

One Friday afternoon, as the children were painting, Jesenia peeked in from her study.

"Ingrid," she said, "you've been such a gift to our family. I've been thinking—how about I give you something in return? Some computer lessons."

"Oh, I don't know," Ingrid replied, wiping a small splash of green paint from her cheek. "Computers are so clever, I'd only slow you down."

Jesenia laughed. "You'd be surprised. Teaching beginners is harder than teaching graduate students. My grad students already think like computers. Beginners make me think like a teacher."

That made Ingrid curious. "Harder than teaching people who build robots?"

"Much harder," said Jesenia, nodding. "You can't use fancy words. You have to translate the invisible world of circuits and code into something you can hold in your hands—or at least imagine."

So they began that Monday morning after the school drop-off, with coffee and shortbread cookies at the kitchen table.

"Lesson one," Jesenia said, setting her mug down. "Let's start simple. What is a web browser?"

Ingrid hesitated. "Is it… the internet?"

"Aha," said Jesenia, smiling. "That's a common mix-up. Think of the web browser as… a tool for looking at things. It helps you see what's already out there on the web."

She paused for a moment, then her eyes lit up. "It's like a pair of binoculars."

"Binoculars!" Ingrid exclaimed, sitting up straight. "Now that I understand. You can't see the birds themselves unless you're looking through them."

"Exactly," Jesenia said. "The internet is full of information—like a whole forest of birds—and the browser helps you spot and study what you're interested in."

Ingrid smiled wide. "And the search bar is like the focus knob?"

"Perfect," said Jesenia. "You twist it to bring the right thing into view."

That evening, Ingrid told Mateo and Lila that their mother had compared computers to birdwatching. Mateo looked skeptical. "Can you find birds on the computer?"

"Oh yes," said Ingrid. "You can even listen to their songs. The computer helps me see the world more clearly—just like my binoculars."

From then on, their lessons became a cheerful ritual. Jesenia would find analogies that matched Ingrid's world:

• Folders were "little nests" to keep related things together.

• Copy and paste was "like moving eggs from one nest to another, but without breaking them."

• The desktop was "your favorite clearing in the forest—where you can spread things out and find them again easily."

• 
  

Jesenia delighted in how quickly Ingrid learned. Each time Ingrid grasped a new idea, she clapped softly, as if spotting a rare finch.

Weeks later, Jesenia told her class of graduate students about Ingrid. "She teaches me something too," she said. "That good teaching isn't about complexity—it's about connection." Meanwhile, Ingrid, once hesitant to touch a mouse, now used her browser-binoculars every morning before breakfast, watching live feeds from bird sanctuaries all over the world.

And every time she zoomed in on a nesting egret or a darting kingfisher, she thought fondly of Jesenia—the professor who taught her that computers, like nature, become friendlier once you learn how to look. Ingrid's computer lessons soon became part of the household rhythm -- after the kids' lunchboxes were packed and before Jesenia disappeared into her office to meet with her graduate students over video calls.

Manuel, Jesenia's husband, usually worked in the next room at his drafting table. He was a quiet man—an architect who preferred blueprints to small talk. But during those kitchen-table lessons, he often paused his drawing and watched the two women with quiet fascination, pencil hovering over paper.

At first, he said little—just a soft "Hmm" when Ingrid grasped something new, or a nod when Jesenia turned a complex concept into a bit of poetry. But the glimmer in his eyes gave him away: he was impressed.

One drizzly Tuesday, Jesenia decided to make email practice more lively. "Okay," she said, "today we're going to learn how to reply to an email."

She tapped at her keyboard and grinned. "But not just any email. You'll be answering… riddles."

Ingrid's eyes brightened. "Riddles? I love riddles."

Minutes later, Ingrid's inbox chimed. She gasped as she read:

Subject: Riddle #1

I fly without wings. I cry without eyes. Whenever I go, darkness flies. What am I?

Ingrid giggled. "Oh, I know this one—it's a cloud." she said, pecking slowly at the keyboard with two fingers.

Reply: Hello Jesenia,
The answer is a cloud.
Yours sincerely,
Ingrid

Manuel looked up from his desk in the next room. "She's got it," he murmured, smiling into his coffee mug.

The next riddle arrived:

Subject: Riddle #2
I have keys but no locks, space but no room—you can enter but you can't go outside.

Ingrid blinked, puzzled. "Keys? Space? Enter?" she muttered. Then her eyes widened. "Oh! It's the keyboard."

"Correct." Jesenia cheered. "You're getting the hang of it."

A week later, Ingrid decided she wanted to surprise Jesenia. She took her phone out during nap time and slowly typed an email herself.

Subject: Ingrid's Riddle #1
I help you see things far away, but only if you hold me the right way.

When Jesenia opened the message, she laughed out loud. "Binoculars!" she typed back.

Manuel, sitting nearby, raised an eyebrow. "She's creating her own curriculum now," he said.

Jesenia beamed. "That's how you know someone's really learning—they start playing back."

The riddles became their shared game. Jesenia would send ones that snuck in bits of computer learning:

Riddle: I live in your computer but don't eat or sleep. I can remember things for you if you tell me to keep.

Ingrid's reply came minutes later:

That must be a file.

Another day, Ingrid sent this one:

I'm round and I roll, but not on the floor. I help you move the arrow that opens the door.

Jesenia laughed aloud in her study. "The mouse. She's describing the mouse."

Even Manuel chuckled, shaking his head. "You've turned your lessons into a riddle exchange program."

For one of their later lessons, Jesenia set up a scavenger hunt. "All right, Ingrid," she said. "Your mission is to use the web browser—remember, your binoculars—to find me three kinds of birds that start with the letter S."

Ingrid squinted thoughtfully. "Sparrow… swallow… starling." She typed each word carefully into the search bar, amazed as the pictures appeared instantly. "It's like birdwatching around the world," she whispered.

Manuel, standing by the coffee pot, watched her with a quiet smile. "That's exactly what it is," he said softly.

A few months later, Jesenia arrived home late one evening from campus and found Ingrid sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, glasses perched low on her nose.

"Look!" Ingrid said proudly. "I just made a folder called Bird Photos. I dragged all my screenshots in there."

"That's wonderful," Jesenia said. "You're organizing your nests."

Ingrid beamed. "And I emailed my cousin in Sweden with one of my riddles. She said she never thought computers could be fun."

Manuel closed his sketchbook and nodded approvingly. "You two have changed the atmosphere of this house," he said. "Every day there is laughter bouncing off the walls."

Ingrid's transformation didn't end there. Every morning, she checked her inbox with the same thrill she once felt spotting a rare bird. The riddles became their ongoing conversation—half learning, half friendship.

Sometimes Jesenia's messages were about computer shortcuts; sometimes Ingrid's riddles were about nature.

And though Manuel still didn't say much, every time he saw Ingrid typing—eyes bright, shoulders proud—he'd give a small, silent salute with his pencil, as if to say: You've built something remarkable together.

The computer, once mysterious and intimidating, had become something else entirely—another pair of binoculars through which Ingrid could see not only the world, but also herself, more clearly.

(This story is donated to the public domain.)

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