Why the Boy in My Class Keeps Asking for Maths Answers (And What Actually Helps)
The first time I noticed, I assumed Marcus hadn’t been listening. We were twenty minutes into a multiplication word problem lesson, and most of the class was working through the sheet in a comfortable, messy way—underlining numbers, multiplying in the margins, erasing things. Marcus had his pencil in his hand, but the page was blank. He put his hand up.
“Miss, is this one right?”
“What answer did you get?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I just wanted to check if it was right before I wrote it down.”
That moment stayed with me. It was such an honest thing to say. He wasn’t trying to be difficult. He genuinely didn’t see the problem with asking for the answer before he had attempted the question. Why would he? In his experience, that was probably how he’d been getting through maths for a long time.
At first I thought it was laziness. It was easier to assume that than to think about what was actually happening. But after a few days I noticed a pattern. Marcus didn’t ask sometimes. He asked constantly. Every time he reached a question he didn’t immediately know how to solve, he would look at it for a few seconds, then raise his hand. If I gave him the answer, he’d write it down and move on. If I asked him to try first, he’d stare at the page, then ask if he could have a different sheet.
I started to realise that for Marcus, asking was a strategy. It wasn’t a good strategy for learning, but it was effective. It got him through the lesson. It meant he never had to face the empty page alone. It also meant he never had to be wrong. For a child who didn’t understand most of the maths on the worksheet, that probably felt much safer than trying.
The hard part was that he didn’t know how to ask a better question. “What’s the answer?” was the only way he knew to talk about maths. He wasn’t saying, “I don’t understand.” He was saying, “I’m stuck,” but his words couldn’t tell me where.
So I stopped giving him the answer.
I didn’t make a big announcement about it. I just changed what I said when he asked. Instead of “It’s 24,” I started saying, “Show me what you’ve written, and I’ll look at it with you.” The first few times, he said, “I haven’t written anything.” So I said, “Then go back to the top and write down the numbers you’re using. Even if it’s just the first step.” It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he’d write down the numbers, look at them, and still have no idea what to do next. But at least he had started. There was something on the page we could talk about.
The real breakthrough came when I stopped treating it as a behaviour problem and started treating it as a maths problem. Marcus wasn’t refusing to think. He didn’t have the knowledge to start. We sat together with a simple question: “A box holds 6 eggs. How many boxes do you need for 42 eggs?” He could read it. He knew it involved division, because there were boxes and eggs and the word “how many.” But he couldn’t recall 42 divided by 6. Of course he asked for the answer—he didn’t have it inside his head. Giving him a multiplication grid changed things. He found 6×7, then wrote 42, and completed the question without looking at me. He wasn’t dependent on me. He was dependent on a tool I gave him.
I’ve also started using self-check boxes on some sheets. At the bottom, I write the answers in tiny numbers on a folded corner. Marcus is allowed to check after he’s done three questions, but not before. At first he complained. “How do I know if I’m right?” he said. I explained that he was the one who needed to know, not me. It took a while before he used it properly. But it changed the dynamic. The answer was no longer something I had to give him—it was something he could look at once he’d done his own bit of thinking.
There are other small things that have made a difference. I fold his worksheet in half so he only sees six questions at a time. Twelve questions feels like a mountain to him. Six feels manageable. I also ask him to underline the numbers in the problem before he does anything else. That gives him somewhere to put his pencil. Sometimes that’s all he needs.
If you’re reading this as a parent, and your child keeps asking for answers at home, there’s a version of this that works there too. Instead of telling them to “think for yourself,” sit down and read the question aloud. Then ask, “What do you think you’re supposed to do?” If they can’t say, don’t give them the answer—give them a smaller step. “First, underline the number of boxes or the number of eggs.” Or “Let’s do the first one together, and you’ll do the second.” It sounds too simple, but it helps because it shows a child that the task isn’t one big impossible thing. It’s a series of small things.
I’m not saying I never give Marcus an answer. Sometimes the lesson is nearly over, he’s exhausted, and the kindest thing is just to say “The answer is 42—now can you tell me how I got that?” But when that happens every time, it teaches the child that when maths feels difficult, the way out is through someone else’s thinking. That’s not a lesson I want him to keep learning.
The other thing I’ve had to be careful about is my own reaction. It’s easy to sound patient and warm while secretly feeling annoyed. I have to keep reminding myself that Marcus isn’t doing this to wind me up. He’s doing it because for years, it has worked. Asking for the answer is a survival skill. It’s just not a learning skill.
Last week, Marcus did something I hadn’t seen before. He worked through the first three questions on a folded sheet without putting his hand up once. He wasn’t sure he was right, but he’d written something. When I came over, he said, “I don’t know if this is right, but I did it.” It wasn’t a perfect maths moment. There were mistakes. But he had written down his own attempts before asking for help. That’s a big change.
I’d love to say the rest of the year has been smooth. It hasn’t. The next day, he was back to asking “Is this right?” before he’d written anything. That might happen for a long time. But now I know that when he asks, the answer he actually needs isn’t the number. He needs to know he has permission to try first—and a way to start.
We haven’t fixed it. But we’re getting somewhere, one half-finished question at a time.
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