The twins decided, on the first day of the new school year, that they were not nervous.

This was a group decision. I knew this because Mia had announced it at breakfast with the authority of someone chairing a meeting.

"Noah and I talked," she said. "We're not nervous."

"Good," I said.

"But we might be a little excited," she said. "Which is different."

"Very different," I agreed.

Noah, who processed things more internally than his sister, was eating his cereal with the focused concentration of a child who had thoughts he wasn't ready to share. He'd been quieter than usual all morning, which in Noah meant he was running some internal calculation I wouldn't hear about until later.

I packed their lunch boxes. I put Mia's butterfly clip in her hair and Noah's blue backpack strap on his shoulder. I looked at the two of them in the morning light of our apartment and felt the specific thing I always felt: the compound weight of love and responsibility and the awareness that I was doing this alone.

Not alone in the bad sense. We had my mother, who lived twenty minutes away and who arrived on Tuesday and Thursday mornings so I could get to school early. We had our neighbor Pru, who had a daughter in the same class as the twins. We had the network of single parents and early childhood educators who made up most of my world.

But in the fundamental sense — in the sense of someone else carrying half the weight — we were three.

I'd made peace with that.

Mostly.

"Ready?" I said.

"Ready," Mia said.

Noah nodded. Still running his internal calculation.

Crestwood Academy was ten minutes from our apartment, which was one of the reasons I'd applied for the position. The other reason was the school itself: small, innovative, the kind of early childhood program that did things carefully. I'd been teaching kindergarten for six years. I knew what good looked like, and Crestwood looked good.

The teacher salary didn't cover the tuition, obviously. The school had a generous scholarship program for faculty children. That was what made it possible.

We arrived at eight-fifteen.

The campus was already busy — other parents, other children, the specific chaos of orientation week. Mia took it in immediately and began categorizing: that girl has the same backpack as me, that dog is not allowed inside, why is that man in a suit.

"Where?" I said.

"There." She pointed.

I looked.

At the end of the main path, near the school's entrance, three people in very good suits were talking to Principal Ortega. I recognized Ortega from my onboarding meeting. The three suit people I didn't recognize.

"Probably donors," I said. "The school has donors who visit."

"Oh," Mia said. She lost interest.

Noah was looking at the suit people.

"Come on," I said. "We need to find Ms. Reyes. She's going to show you your classroom."

We went to find Ms. Reyes.

I delivered the twins to their classroom. I crouched down.

"I'm going to be in a classroom two buildings over," I said. "My classroom has a blue door. If anything happens—"

"Nothing's going to happen," Mia said.

"—you find Ms. Reyes or any adult with a green lanyard and they'll bring you to me."

"Okay," Noah said. He'd resolved his calculation, apparently. He had the settled look of someone who'd made a decision.

"What?" I said.

"I think I like this school," he said.

"Already?" I said.

"The hallways smell like books," he said.

I held both their faces for a second. Four years old. Going to kindergarten. Still small enough that the hallway seemed large.

"Have a good first day," I said.

"You too," Mia said.

She went in.

Noah hung back.

"Mom," he said.

"Yes."

"The man in the suit," he said. "He was looking at us."

I stood.

"People look at twins," I said. "It's normal."

"Not like that," he said.

"Noah—"

"Okay," he said. And went inside.

I stood in the hallway for a moment.

Then I went to my classroom.

I had a full day ahead. New students, new room, new colleagues. There was no time to think about men in suits looking at my children.

I'd told myself that for four years.

I was getting less good at believing it.