More than one way to the square 

　　We were standing at the top of a church tower. My father had brought me to this spot in a small Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I wondered why.

　　“Look down, Elsa,” Father said. I gathered all my courage and looked down. I saw the square in the center of the village. And I saw the crisscross of twisting, turning streets leading to the square.

　　“See, my dear,” Father said gently. “There is more than one way to the square. Life is like that. If you can't get to the place where you want to go by one road, try another.”

　　Now I understood why I was there. Earlier that day I had begged my mother to do something about the awful lunches that were served at school. But she refused because she could not believe the lunches were as bad as I said.

　　When I turned to Father for help, he would not interfere. Instead, he brought me to this high tower to give me a lesson. By the time we reached home, I had a plan.