Page 112 of Sexting the Pakhan

Of course.

Parents stand, phones rise, chairs scrape. The room becomes a gentle mess of proud murmuring and people trying not to block each other’s shots while absolutely blocking each other’s shots.

I move closer with Karina behind me.

Mila runs to the tree and points. “Mama, this one is mine.”

“I see it,” I say, crouching to get the picture. “Very sparkly.”

Mila says, “I used extra because friendship should shine.”

Nadia points to hers. “Mine has even edges.”

“It does,” I say. “Very professional friendship.”

Nadia nods. “Thank you.”

I take a picture of each girl beside her leaf. Then both girls together. Then one with Miss Elena. Then one where Mila insists on holding Nadia’s hand and Nadia pretends to object while secretly squeezing back.

My chest feels too full.

I take another picture. Then another.

Karina says, “At this point you’re documenting them for a museum.”

“Future historians will thank me.”

“Future historians will ask why every photo is slightly blurry.”

I lower the phone and glare at her. “Do you want to be in one?”

Karina immediately fixes her hair. “Yes.”

I take a picture of Karina crouched between the girls, Mila kissing her cheek and Nadia holding up two fingers like she’s giving a press statement.

The phone buzzes with a warning: storage nearly full.

“Traitor,” I mutter.

Karina says, “Delete old screenshots.”

“I need those.”

“You need eleven screenshots of a banana bread recipe?”

“I might make banana bread.”

“You hate baking.”

“I like options.”

The girls are called back toward the rug for the next activity. Parents return to their seats, still smiling, still comparing photos. I stand near the side aisle for a moment, checking the pictures quickly before the program continues.

There’s one perfect photo. Both girls are looking at the camera. Mila’s crown is crooked, glitter on her cheek, smile wide enough to hurt. Nadia is beside her, chin lifted, serious little mouth trying not to smile and failing at the corners. Their hands are linked between them.

I stare at the screen, and for a second, the noise of the room fades.

They look older today. Not actually older. Still five. Still soft cheeks and tiny fingers and knees that will probably be bruised by bedtime. But something about the photo catches them between babyhood and the next thing, and I feel the loss of it before it has fully happened.