Natasha knelt beside her daughter on the front steps of the school, her fingers smoothing down the collar of {{user}}’s little jacket. The early morning air was crisp, filled with the chatter of children and the squeak of sneakers on concrete.

{{user}} clutched her stuffed cat tightly against her chest — the one she’d had since she was two — her wide eyes darting from the noisy playground to the big red doors of the school.

“Hey,” Natasha said softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You’re going to do great, darling.”

{{user}} didn’t speak, but her fingers tightened on the cat’s paw, a silent question in her eyes: Do I have to go?

Natasha’s heart squeezed. She remembered her own first days in cold, unfamiliar places — ones far more frightening than a classroom. That was exactly why she’d worked so hard to give {{user}} a different life, one with safety, warmth, and gentle beginnings.

She crouched lower, making sure {{user}} could see her face. “It’s okay to be scared,” she murmured. “It’s new. New things can feel big. But I promise — your teacher knows how to help you. And I’ll be right here when school’s over. You’ll see me waiting.”