Page 108 of Sexting the Pakhan

My stomach sinks.

Then Mila unbuckles herself with the violence of a tiny escape artist and says, “Mama, I need to go inside now because Miss Elena said we line up before the song.”

Nadia says, “Mila, you’re not supposed to unbuckle until Mama says.”

Mila says, “The ceremony needs me.”

Karina opens her door and says, “The ceremony has no idea what’s coming.”

I look toward the back lane again.

The men are still there, but one of them has turned away from the fence. No one is running. No one is shouting. The front entrance is full of families, teachers, children in paper crowns, and one father trying to carry a tray of cupcakes while a toddler attacks his knees.

Maybe they’re maintenance workers.

Maybe they’re staff.

Maybe six years of looking over my shoulder have trained my nerves to turn every shadow into a warning.

“Mama,” Nadia says, touching my arm. “We should sign in.”

I force my hand to unclench. “You’re right,” I say.

Karina catches my eye over the roof of the car. She doesn’t look convinced, but she gives me a tiny nod that says,I saw it too. We’ll watch.

That helps. A little.

We get out. Mila grabs my left hand. Nadia takes my right. Their palms are warm and sticky, and just like that, I’m pulled away from the parking lot and into the glowing, noisy entrance of the kindergarten.

Inside, Little Birch has transformed into what looks like a craft store explosion with emotional stakes. Paper leaves hang from the ceiling. A sign over the classroom door saysWELCOME TO OUR LEARNING FAMILY, and every letter has been decorated by a different child with wildly different levels of respect for glue. There’s a table of snacks near the wall, a display of children’s drawings, and a seating area where parents are already forming small groups. I can identify the types immediately.

The organized mothers are near the sign-in sheet with labeled folders.

The competitive fathers are discussing parking.

The grandparents are taking photos of everything, including the shoe rack.

And then there are mothers like me, standing slightly overwhelmed near the door while trying to look like they remembered this event was happening before noon.

A woman in a green dress turns toward me with a bright smile.

She says, “You must be Mila and Nadia’s mom.”

I brace myself for something harmless and still somehow stressful. “Yes, I’m Zoya.”

The woman says, “I’m Priya. Aarav’s mom. He came home talking about twin girls who disagreed about whether clouds are heavy.”

Nadia looks up. “They are heavy, but not like rocks.”

Mila says, “I said they look fluffy.”

Nadia says, “Looking fluffy is not scientific.”

Priya laughs. “I can see why Aarav was fascinated.”

Karina leans toward me and whispers, “Your children have academic beef with weather.”

I whisper back, “Please don’t encourage it.”