You felt the need of correcting my English.
You felt the need of interrupting my story and stomping on my enthusiasm, just to tell me I used the wrong word and that it’s not how you pronounce it. Because the smirk on your face wasn’t enough for me to get it, everyone around had to know it as well.
In my broken English, I could tell you many things.
I could tell you that I always struggled with stammering, even in my mother language.
I could tell you that not so long ago, I was not able to say a single English sentence out loud.
I could tell you that I’ve met most words in their written form, so pronunciation is often still a mystery.
I could tell you that Portuguese has enough variations of “in” to make you dizzy, though I still can’t properly tell “in”, “on” and “at” apart.
I could tell you that all my life I’ve used the same word for “borrowing” and “lending”. And that is quite beautiful if you think of it. Giving and taking, sharing without keeping tabs.
I will not, though, because it doesn’t matter. You aren’t interested in perfecting my language skills, you aren’t interested in languages.
Congratulations on your default accomplishment of knowing more English than I do. Revel in your moment.