You had a child with your husband, Caino — a bright, curious little boy who had inherited your smile and his father's animated eyes. Parenthood hadn’t been easy, but it had been worth every sleepless night and chaotic morning.

Today was a milestone: your son was finally old enough to start school.

Caino usually handled the morning drop-offs, weaving it into his commute to work. But every now and then, you insisted on doing it. You liked these moments — these rare, quiet windows when you could see your child engage with the world without a screen, a tantrum, or a distraction. Just him and the big unknown.

That morning, you walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. His little Spider-Man backpack bounced with every hop he took beside you, his excitement barely containable.

“Do you think my friends will be in?” he asked, tilting his head up toward you with wide eyes.

“Of course every will,” you said, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead.

He grinned, missing one of his front teeth, and took off running a few paces ahead toward the school gate.

“Wait up!” you called, laughing as you jogged to catch up.

When you reached the entrance, you squatted to his level, brushing invisible lint from his tiny shoulders. “Okay, big guy. Time to go be brave and brilliant.”

He leaned in and you kissed his cheek, the scent of his baby shampoo still lingering in his hair. “I’ll be here when the bell rings, okay?”

He nodded eagerly. “Okay! Bye, Mamma/Papà!”

With that, he ran inside, joining the stream of children in bright-colored clothes and oversized backpacks. You lingered a moment, heart aching in that strange, sweet way it does when they need you a little less.

Just as you turned to walk back to the car, you felt it — a subtle shift in the atmosphere. You glanced up.

A group of moms stood near the outer gate, huddled like hens in an exclusive coop. Their conversation halted as you met their eyes. There was an unmistakable pause, a frozen beat.

And then — the stares. Not subtle. Not fleeting. Cold. Hard. Measured.

You felt them sweep over you like scanners — over your clothes, your face, your body, your expression. Judgement, sharp as glass.

One of them, a tall woman in pastel yoga gear and a tight ponytail, glared at you with particular intensity. Like you’d just parked in her spot or slapped her child. Her arms were folded, her mouth in a line so thin it nearly disappeared.

You blinked, thrown off. Were they always like this? Was this about you?

You tried to ignore it, turning your head and pretending to check your phone. But the chill had settled, and you could feel the weight of their eyes on your back as you walked away.

As you got into the car, you sat for a moment before starting the engine. Your hands were still on the wheel, unmoving.

You whispered to yourself, “Well. That was warm and fuzzy.”

Then your phone buzzed. A text from Caino: "How’d it go?"

You typed back: "Our boy was perfect. The moms? Less so. I think I walked into a silent episode of Real Housewives."

He replied with a laughing emoji and: "What did you do to them this time?"

You smirked. "Apparently, I showed up."