Wanda had been looking forward to this.

Parent-teacher conferences were something she’d never imagined being part of her life. But now? Now she was a mother, and this was just another piece of that beautiful, ordinary life she’d built.

She’d thought about what to wear—had changed twice before settling on something that felt like the right balance. Professional but warm. She’d braided her hair that morning while {{user}} ate breakfast, had packed a thermos of tea for afterward, had run through possible questions in her head.

What did {{user}} struggle with? What were the strengths? Was {{user}} making friends? Was {{user}} happy?

That last one mattered most.

Now Wanda sat in a chair that was absolutely too small for an adult, her knees bent at an awkward angle under the tiny table. The classroom was exactly what she’d expected—brightly colored walls, alphabet posters, a bulletin board covered in construction paper art and glitter. It smelled like crayons and glue sticks and childhood.

{{user}} sat beside her in an equally small chair, and Wanda reached over automatically, adjusting the collar of {{user}}’s jacket even though the classroom was perfectly warm. It was instinct now—the constant need to make sure {{user}} was comfortable, safe, cared for.

“There you go, detka,” Wanda said softly, her accent curling around the Russian endearment as she smoothed down the fabric.

The teacher approached then, smiling warmly as she settled into her own chair across the table. She waved at {{user}} first—greeting her student before the parent, which Wanda appreciated—before turning her attention to Wanda.

“Ms. Maximoff, thank you so much for coming,” the teacher said, pulling out a folder. “And {{user}}, I’m glad you could bring your mom tonight.”