15. Zoya
ZOYA
By six in the evening, my daughters look like they are attending two separate events.
Mila is dressed for a stage performance, a royal wedding, and possibly her own coronation.
She insisted on the yellow dress with the puff sleeves, glitter clips, white socks with lace, and shoes that flash pink lights when she walks.
Every step she takes in the apartment looks like a tiny emergency vehicle is responding to a princess crisis.
Nadia, on the other hand, has chosen navy-blue leggings, a white top, and a cardigan buttoned all the way to her throat because, according to her, “programs require seriousness.”
I stand in the hallway with a hairbrush in my hand and stare at them.
“You two are twins,” I say. “You understand that, right?”
Mila twirls once and says, “We’re not outfit twins.”
Nadia adjusts her cardigan and says, “We’re genetically twins, not fashion twins.”
I point the brush at her. “You have got to stop saying things that make you sound like my accountant.”
Nadia frowns. “We don’t have an accountant.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why it’s unsettling.”
Mila climbs onto the shoe bench and says, “Mama, my hair needs more sparkle.”
“Your hair has four clips, two butterfly pins, and something I’m pretty sure came from a birthday cake decoration,” I say.
Mila pats her curls carefully. “So one more sparkle.”
“No,” I say.
Mila presses both hands to her chest. “For the welcome ceremony.”
Nadia says, “It’s not a welcome ceremony anymore. We’re already welcomed. Miss Elena said it’s a family evening program.”
Mila says, “That’s too many words.”
Nadia says, “It’s the correct name.”
Mila looks at me. “Mama, can I call it a welcome thingy?”
“You may call it whatever gets us into the car in the next three minutes,” I say.
That finally moves them. Sort of.
Mila remembers she needs her “stage stone,” which is actually a shiny pebble she found near the bus stop and has decided is lucky.
Nadia announces she cannot perform without the purple water bottle because her “throat may become dry from public speaking,” though her speaking part is one sentence and mostly involves saying, Welcome, families.
By the time I lock the apartment door, I’m sweating through a blouse I chose because it looked like something a responsible mother would wear.
Karina is waiting by the elevator with a paper cup of coffee in one hand and an expression that says she has already judged me lovingly. “You look like you fought a closet and lost with dignity.”
I look down at my blouse. “This is my parent-event blouse.”
Karina looks at the girls and says, “And you two look incredible.”
Mila beams. “I’m sparkly.”
Nadia nods. “I’m appropriate.”
Karina says, “Both vital energies.”
I lock the door twice because old habits, single motherhood, and six years of pretending I don’t check locks like a paranoid raccoon have made me who I am.
Karina notices, of course. “You okay?”
I smile too quickly. “Yes.”
She doesn’t believe me, but she knows better than to ask in front of the girls.
The ride down is full of Mila practicing her song at full volume, Nadia correcting her pronunciation, and Karina whispering to me, “Do they know it’s a school event and not a parliamentary hearing?”
I whisper back, “Nadia does.”
Karina says, “Terrifying child.”
“I heard that,” Nadia says.
Karina looks down at her. “I said inspiring child.”
Nadia studies her for two seconds. “No, you didn’t.”
Karina looks at me. “She’s going to cross-examine us one day.”
“She already does,” I say.
“I’m going to be President of the United States,” Nadia says.
“I’ve no doubt about that,” I say.
We drive to Little Birch Early Learning with twenty minutes to spare.
The building looks sweet in the fading light, almost aggressively sweet, with its painted fence and bright paper lanterns strung around the main entrance. Someone has taped handmade signs to the gate.
WELCOME FAMILIES!
FIRST STEPS PROGRAM!
PLEASE CHECK IN AT THE FRONT TABLE!
The girls see the lanterns and immediately begin vibrating.
Mila says, “Mama, it’s so beautiful.”
Nadia says, “The green lantern is crooked.”
Karina says, “Never change, Nadia.”
I turn into the small parking area beside the kindergarten, searching for a free spot between a minivan covered in dinosaur stickers and a sedan with a bumper sticker that says My child is my boss.
“Relatable,” I mutter.
As I pull in, movement catches my eye near the back service lane.
Two men stand by the far fence. They’re too far away to see clearly, half-hidden by the shadow of the mechanic’s shed next door. One of them bends near the gate, then straightens quickly. Another shape moves by a white van parked beyond the lane.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
For a second, I’m back in another place. Another life. Men moving where they shouldn’t be. The wrong kind of stillness. My body recognizing danger before my mind has permission to.
Karina notices my face. “Zoya?”
I keep my eyes on the rearview mirror. “Do you see those men?”
She leans forward slightly. “Where?”
“By the back fence.”
She squints. “The ones near the van?”
“Yes.”
Her voice changes. “They do look weird.”
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 says WELCOME 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.”
Another mother joins us, tall, polished, holding a reusable water bottle the size of a fire extinguisher. She says, “I’m Claire. Sophie’s mom.”
I say, “Nice to meet you.”
Claire looks at the girls and says, “Oh, they’re adorable. Which one is the shy one?”
Mila points to Nadia. “She observes.”
Nadia says, “I’m not shy. I’m selective.”
Claire blinks once. Karina coughs into her coffee.
I place a hand on Nadia’s shoulder and say, “She means thank you.”
Nadia says, “I didn’t mean that, but thank you.”
Priya laughs again. I decide immediately that I like Priya.
Miss Elena appears from the classroom with a clipboard and the calm smile of a woman who has already tied six shoelaces, comforted three crying children, and stopped someone from eating a sticker.
Miss Elena says, “Mila, Nadia, you’re right on time.”
Mila says, “I have my stage stone.”
Miss Elena looks at me.
I say, “It’s sanitary. I think.”
Nadia says, “Mama washed it with soap.”
Miss Elena says, “Excellent. We love clean stones.”
Karina says, “That should be the school motto.”
Miss Elena smiles like she has heard stranger things this week, which she probably has. “Girls, come with me. We’re lining up near the reading corner.”
Mila immediately lets go of my hand, then turns back and hugs my leg dramatically. She says, “If I forget the song, I’ll look at you.”
I crouch in front of her. “I will be right there.”
They follow Miss Elena into the classroom, Mila skipping, Nadia walking with the solemn dignity of someone attending a board meeting. The second they’re gone, I look toward the side hallway that leads to the back of the building.
Karina notices. She says quietly, “You’re thinking about the men outside.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“I didn’t say you were wrong.”
That makes my throat tighten.
Priya, still beside us, lowers her voice. “Is everything okay?”
I turn back too quickly. “Yes. Sorry. First-day nerves.”
Priya’s expression softens. “I cried in my car this morning.”
I blink. “You too?”
Claire steps closer and says, “I cried in the bathroom at work.”