My dad was a mathematician and worked for New York City as a

Host: The afternoon sun was fading, spilling amber light over a narrow street of aging brick buildings and faded signs. A small electronics repair shop sat on the corner, its windows filled with half-repaired radios, computer parts, and the faint hum of machines that had seen better decades.

Inside, the air smelled of solder, coffee, and dust — the scent of quiet persistence. Jack stood near the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at the circuit board he had been fixing for an hour without success. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the old wooden desk, watching him with that mix of curiosity and tender skepticism that always lived in her eyes.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. Outside, the city hummed — distant cars, hurried footsteps, the rhythm of commerce and survival. And here, inside this modest shop, a different kind of equation was unfolding.

Jeeny: “Lisa Su once said something about her parents,” she began, softly, “‘My dad was a mathematician and worked for New York City as a statistician. My mom was an accountant and eventually started her own business in her mid-40s.’”

She paused, eyes tracing the sunlight as it hit the dust in the air, turning it golden.
“I’ve always loved that. The way she spoke of them — so ordinary, so human. Numbers and courage. Logic and leap.”

Jack: (smiling faintly, not looking up) “You’d like that mix, wouldn’t you? A mathematician father, an entrepreneur mother. Balance between calculation and risk.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Two halves of the same truth. Data and daring.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s proof that stability breeds ambition. You can’t jump if the ground isn’t firm.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried the gravel of lived experience — a man who believed more in foundations than flights. He adjusted the board again, his hands steady, his eyes cold with focus.

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty, Jack. Her mother didn’t leap when she was young — she did it at forty. She built her ground first, then jumped. That’s courage too.”

Jack: “Or desperation. Midlife makes people do strange things — they call it ‘reinvention,’ but sometimes it’s just panic dressed up as passion.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You think she panicked her way into running international trade between Taiwan and the U.S.?”

Jack: “I think she saw a gap and filled it. That’s not courage, that’s calculus.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You always reduce everything to equations.”

Jack: “And you always turn them into poems.”

Host: The light flickered slightly as a bus passed outside, shaking the window glass. For a moment, neither spoke. Only the buzz of the soldering iron and the tick of the clock filled the air — a kind of mechanical heartbeat between their philosophies.

Jeeny: “You know what I hear in that story, Jack? A family that believed in possibility — that the mind could measure and the heart could build. That you don’t need to be born fearless; you just need to stay curious.”

Jack: “Curiosity doesn’t pay rent. Her father’s math did. Her mother’s accounting did. Those aren’t dreams, they’re disciplines.”

Jeeny: “But discipline becomes dream, doesn’t it? If you follow it long enough. Lisa Su didn’t invent chips by chasing fantasy — she followed the numbers her parents taught her to trust, and then she believed in what the numbers couldn’t predict.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Belief built semiconductors, huh?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Belief guided the hands that did. You can’t build innovation from fear.”

Host: Jack finally set the soldering iron down, the faint smoke rising between them like an invisible veil. His grey eyes lifted to hers — analytical, but not unkind.

Jack: “Let me tell you something, Jeeny. My father was a machinist. Every morning, he’d wake up at 5 a.m., fix the same kind of engines, come home smelling of oil and exhaustion. No risks, no dreams. But we never went hungry. I used to think that was failure — now I think it was love disguised as labor.”

Jeeny: “Then you already understand Lisa Su’s mother. She built the equation first — stability — and then solved for meaning.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe people like her only jump when they know the net’s already woven.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No, Jack. The net wasn’t there — she wove it while she fell. That’s what most people forget. Courage isn’t about knowing you’ll land. It’s about deciding to jump anyway, because staying where you are is no longer life.”

Host: The light shifted, turning from gold to soft orange as the day began to close. The machines around them hummed quietly, like they too were listening — mechanical witnesses to human stubbornness and grace.

Jack: “So you think that story is about courage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And legacy. About how ordinary people plant the seeds of extraordinary lives without realizing it. Her father counted numbers for a city; her mother counted risks for herself. And somewhere in that mix, their daughter learned how to calculate the impossible.”

Jack: “You make it sound like destiny.”

Jeeny: “Not destiny — design. Every life sketches a blueprint, Jack. Her parents taught her the symmetry of structure and the chaos of creation. It’s all math in the end, just with different units — one measures safety, the other, possibility.”

Jack: “So, equations and courage again.”

Jeeny: “Always. Every invention, every love, every choice is just an equation between what we know and what we dare.”

Host: A silence followed — warm, reflective. The kind that sits between two people who both understand they’re talking about more than just someone else’s story.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… I always thought I’d start my own business one day. Never did. Every time I tried, fear started whispering — the voice of failure before the failure even came.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s the accountant in you, Jack. Counting loss before counting gain.”

Jack: “And you? You sound like someone who never met a risk she didn’t want to hug.”

Jeeny: (laughing gently) “Not hug. Understand. Risks aren’t enemies — they’re invitations. Your life asks: how much of yourself are you willing to invest in what could be?”

Host: The sunlight dimmed to twilight, stretching their shadows long across the floor. Jack rubbed his hands, the grease catching faint light, and for the first time that afternoon, he smiled — a real smile, the kind that begins when defenses end.

Jack: “Maybe Lisa Su’s story isn’t about math or business at all. Maybe it’s about inheritance — not money, but mindset. The courage to see numbers as doors instead of walls.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Her parents gave her logic, and she turned it into light. That’s what every generation hopes to do — take what’s practical and make it poetic.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, we’re just keeping the lights on, not building the future.”

Host: Outside, the streetlamps flickered on, one by one — little orbs of persistence in the growing dark. The shop’s sign buzzed weakly, its old letters glowing: Jack’s Repairs. For a brief second, the reflection of the sign in the window made it look like it said Jack’s Renewal.

Jack: (softly) “You think it’s too late for me to start again?”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “Lisa Su’s mother started at forty. You’re thirty-five. You’re early.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And what if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn. Then you start again. Fear is arithmetic; courage is algebra. It’s about solving for the unknown.”

Host: The night had settled now, quiet and calm. The last of the sunlight vanished from the window, leaving only the soft glow of the workshop lights.

Jack looked around — at the scattered parts, the unfinished work, the hum of potential. His grey eyes lifted, and for once, they didn’t look weary — they looked ready.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, Lisa Su didn’t just inherit skills — she inherited synthesis. Her father’s logic, her mother’s courage. She built her own equation from theirs. Maybe we all do that — we just forget we’re allowed to change the variables.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Change the variables… yeah. Maybe that’s where life actually starts.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to fall again, soft, rhythmic, almost forgiving. It traced the window like ink across glass. Jeeny watched it, then looked back at Jack, smiling — that kind of smile that believed in the math of miracles.

And for a long, unbroken moment, the two of them just sat there — between equations and emotion, between fear and beginning — while the sound of rain whispered its steady proof:

That the sum of logic and courage is not certainty —
but possibility.