Page 90 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Bye, Mama,” Nadia says, quieter.

I wave once. “Bye, my loves.”

They walk inside. Mila goes first, already talking to another little girl near the cubbies. Nadia pauses at the doorway, turns back, and gives me one last small wave.

I wave back with a smile so forced my cheeks hurt.

Then the classroom door closes halfway, and they’re inside a world that does not need me every second.

I make it to the car before the tears come properly. The second I shut the door, I press both hands to my face and breathe out a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a sob.

“Very elegant,” I whisper to myself. “Very mature.”

My phone buzzes in my bag.

I pull it out, expecting Karina.

Karina:Did you cry?

I sniff and type back:No.

Karina:Zoya.

Me:A dignified amount.

Karina:There is no dignified amount. There is only crying and lying.

Me:Fine. I cried.

Karina:Good. That means you love them and are not a robot. Breakfast?

Me:Give me ten minutes.

Karina:You get five. If I leave you alone too long, you’ll start looking at baby photos in the parking lot.

I look at the school entrance again. She knows me too well.

I type back:I would never.

Karina:You did it during dentist day.

Me:That was medically stressful.

Karina:Breakfast, Zoya.

I smile through the leftover tears and lock the phone. Then, because apparently I enjoy hurting myself, I unlock it again.

I don’t mean to scroll to the thread. That’s what I tell myself every time. My thumb simply knows the way now, past the school group chat, past Karina, past my mother’s messages about whether the girls wore socks, past reminders from the dentist and the library where I work part-time now.

Unknown Number.

No name. No photograph. No clue. Just a number I should have deleted six years ago.

I stare at it with the tired embarrassment of a woman who has grown older but not necessarily wiser.

Six years. For six years, I have kept this number.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know if the voice in my head sounds anything like his real one. Back then, before the library, before Ruslan, before blood in a hallway and a pregnancy test, he was just a stranger Karina dared me to text.