The assistant who said he was not sure

A woman in Khobar walks into a building supplies shop with a cracked marble step and one question: will this adhesive hold it?

The first assistant she asks does not hesitate. Yes, of course, that one is perfect. She buys it. Within a month the step is loose again, and she does not go back to that counter.

A different shop, a different assistant, the same question. He picks up the tube, reads the back and says he is not certain. It is made for tiles, and he does not know how it behaves on marble outdoors. He could ask the supplier. Or, if she can tell him whether the step is inside or out and how much weight it takes, he can probably narrow it down.

It is a less satisfying answer in the moment. It is also the one she trusts, and the shop she returns to.

Saying I do not know feels like a failure to the person saying it. Customers rarely hear it that way. What they hear is that this person will not risk their money on a guess, and that the next confident answer from him will mean something.

The same choice faces anyone who answers questions for a living: call centres, clinics, government counters, teachers, and now the clever new tools that will answer anything you type. The temptation in every case is to fill the silence with something that sounds sure. A bluff delivered calmly passes for expertise, right up until it costs someone a weekend.

It is surprisingly rare to meet the alternative, from people or from machines. A plain admission of doubt, followed by an offer to find out.

That small honesty is worth more than most confident answers.