Page 149 of Sexting the Pakhan

Mila whispers to Nadia, “He says suppose.”

Nadia whispers back, “Adults do.”

Zoya closes her eyes briefly. “Kitchen. Both of you. Wash hands. Then breakfast.”

Mila asks, “Can he have breakfast?”

Zoya says, “He can have breakfast if he stops being a crisis for five minutes.”

Nadia looks at me. “Can you?”

“I can try,” I say.

Nadia nods. “Trying is sometimes acceptable.”

Mila takes her sister’s hand and pulls her toward the kitchen. “Come on. We need to check cereal.”

Nadia says, “Cereal does not need checking.”

“It does if we’re out of the good one.”

Their voices fade into the kitchen.

Zoya and I are left in the living room.

Morning light sits between us. So does the couch. So does last night. So does six years.

She doesn’t look at me for a moment.

Then she says, quieter, “Did they bother you?”

“No.”

“They ask too many questions.”

“They are children.”

“They are my children.”

I hear what she means.

A warning. A wall. A reminder.

I nod once. “I know.”

Her eyes flick to mine.

For half a second, I think she’ll say it. I think she will tell me what I already suspect, what the picture and the faces and the timing have been forcing me to look at since last night.

But she only says, “You should have called me when they came out.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That is not your decision.”

“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”

That seems to stop her for a moment. She looks tired enough to fall where she stands, but she’s still holding herself upright out of habit. Out of motherhood. Out of anger. Out of whatever she had to build after me.