“You know I could help you with biology,” I say, a little too eagerly.

“What are the two types of immunity?” my daughter asks, casually flipping her eggs.

“Innate and adaptive.”

“What do ribosomes do?”

“They translate messenger RNA into amino acids.”

“Wow, are you a doctor or something?” she deadpans, before scooping up her eggs and sauntering away, leaving my offer untouched.

Next, her younger brother avows that he will fail chemistry.

“I can help!” I volunteer. “I did chem at school, you know.”

“All good,” he says, shrugging. “But if you ever need help writing a column, just ask.”

Chafing, I think they might be taking their cue from their older sibling, now at university. Early in school he adopted a policy of non-interference, which is to say he did not brook my interference. Organised and self-sufficient, he did fine without my input but I wanted a front seat to the performance his teachers lauded.

I itched to read the essays he wrote, the debates he argued and the winning scholarship applications he crafted. But somehow he always forgot to save the drafts or bring home his work. The night before his graduation speech, when I asked to hear it, he retorted I could wait like everyone else. This caused me to grumble that I paid the fees but got no favours. My pitiful plea died the death it deserved.

My journey into the crevices of my children’s educational lives deserves context. I am the daughter of a devout academic. Nearly everyone in my Indian family used education as the stairway to success. We are a people devoid of athletes, artists and entrepreneurs and our highest praise is to be called “educated”.

It was a foregone conclusion that if there was........

© The Guardian