And when he gets older, she said as she smoothed her napkin, we should tell him what his name means. We should remind him of it all the time, don’t you think? Say, ‘Have a fruitful day at school, Eustace!’ Or, ‘Sweet dreams, Eustace, our little fruitful one!’ He needs to know who he is. He needs to know when times get tough, he has a secret spark that can’t be smothered.
Fruitful? he said, setting down his espresso. No, no. ‘Eustace’ means steadfast. Though with all due respect, dear: There is something I find reductive and, frankly, a bit naive in the view that self-esteem derives solely from insistence on a child’s specialness. There are always trade-offs to consider. Suppose he lacks discipline. Suppose he gets hooked on opiates. Suppose he dreams of the opera stage but cannot hold a tune. Do we not owe Eustace more then than just repeating back the meaning of his name? No, to truly reap the fruits of steadfastness—or however you put it—he must not only know great love but also, and perhaps more so, learn to negotiate this love with reality; for love in practice is infinitely more complex, more demanding, more rife with indecision than in our golden dreams.
She raised a fork and pierced her soft-cooked egg. The yolk spread warm and yellow on her toast, spilling off the edge of crust, pooling in arugula. Well, she said—and she felt Eustace kicking—the world can teach him that.
Thanks to for notes on this story.