15. Zoya #2
Karina raises her hand. “I cried when Zoya sent me a picture of the lunch boxes.”
I stare at her. “You did?”
Karina shrugs. “They had tiny napkins.”
Priya presses a hand to her heart. “Tiny napkins are devastating.”
Claire nods gravely. “My Sophie refused the napkin I packed because it was ‘too square.’ I still cried.”
For the first time all evening, I laugh.
Priya smiles. “Kindergarten is brutal on parents.”
Claire says, “The children are fine. We’re the ones who need orientation.”
A bell chimes near the front.
Miss Elena steps into the main room and says, “Families, we’re going to begin in five minutes. Please find seats.”
The room shifts into motion. Parents gather bags, grandparents raise phones, small children peek from the classroom doorway and vanish again.
Karina takes my elbow and steers me toward the chairs. “Front row?”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Coward.”
“I need a strategic aisle seat.”
She studies me. “For emotional escape or suspicious-men surveillance?”
“Both,” I say.
Priya, who has somehow ended up walking with us, points to three seats near the side aisle. “There. Good view, easy exit, and close to snacks.”
Karina says, “Priya, you are a woman of wisdom.”
Priya says, “I have three children. Seating is survival.”
We sit. I choose the aisle, of course.
As parents settle around us, my eyes drift again toward the back hallway. A staff member closes a door there, cutting off my view of the side of the compound.
Nothing happens. No alarms. No shouting. No sudden movement.
Still, the uneasy feeling stays under my skin.
Then music starts from a small speaker near the front, too cheerful and slightly crackly.
The classroom door opens. A line of children comes out wearing paper leaf crowns.
Mila is third. Nadia is fourth. Mila sees me and waves so enthusiastically her crown tilts over one eye. Nadia sees the crown tilt and tries to fix it while still walking, which makes the boy behind her bump into her, which makes the entire line wobble like a very small train losing confidence.
Miss Elena says, “Keep walking, everyone.”
Mila stage-whispers, “Nadia, stop managing me.”
Nadia whispers back, “Your leaf is unstable.”
Karina bends forward, shaking silently.
Priya whispers, “They are magnificent.”
I press a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. For a few minutes, the suspicious men outside fade behind the sight of my daughters standing on the little rug in front of the room, one sparkling, one serious, both mine.
The music quiets.
Miss Elena smiles at the children. “Who would like to welcome our families?”
Nadia steps forward. My heart squeezes. She holds her little card with both hands, clears her throat, and says, “Welcome, families. We are happy you are here to see our learning.” She pauses, then adds, “Please clap at the end.”
The room erupts. I laugh with everyone else, but my eyes burn.
Mila leans toward Nadia and whispers something. Nadia whispers back.
Miss Elena says gently, “Girls, we’re still on stage.”
Mila straightens and gives the room a dazzling smile like she meant to do all of it.
I hold my phone up and whisper, “Perfect. Both of you, perfect.”
Karina leans over and whispers, “You’re recording the entire thing, right?”
“I’m taking pictures,” I whisper back.
She stares at me. “Zoya.”
“What?”
“Video.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Priya, seated on my other side, whispers, “I’m recording. I’ll send it to you.”
I look at her like she has just saved my bloodline. “I love you.”
Priya whispers, “Understandable.”
I switch to video too late, of course. I catch the last twenty seconds of the song, mostly Mila waving at me mid-line and Nadia looking furious because waving is not in the choreography.
The song ends. The room claps. Mila bows.
No one else bows.
Nadia grabs the back of Mila’s dress and whispers something that makes Mila straighten immediately.
Karina whispers, “Nadia is going to run a country.”
“She already runs our house,” I whisper.
Miss Elena steps forward and says, “Now our children are going to show you the friendship tree they made this week.”
The children turn toward a wall covered in brown paper branches and bright handprint leaves. Each leaf has a child’s name written on it. Some names are neat. Some look like they were written during an earthquake.
Mila’s handprint is yellow and covered in glitter.
Nadia’s is blue and perfectly centered.
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.
Karina touches my arm gently. “Send it to me.”
I nod, still looking at the picture. “Yes. Wait.”
I tap share. The usual row of contacts pops up. Karina. My mother. The kindergarten parents’ group. Priya, because she just texted me the video. A few recent threads.
I mean to tap Karina, but someone bumps my elbow. Not hard. A father squeezing past with a paper plate of cupcakes and a toddler attached to his leg. He says, “Sorry, sorry.”
I say, “It’s okay.”
My thumb slips, and the screen changes.
Message sent.
For half a second, I don’t understand what happened. Then I see the thread.
Unknown Number.
The picture sits there in the message bubble. Delivered.
My blood goes cold. “No,” I whisper.
Karina turns. “What?”
I stare at the phone. The picture of my daughters, my beautiful, impossible, secret daughters, has gone to the one number I never should have trusted with anything real.
Unknown Number.
No name. No face. No idea who he is.
And now he has seen them.