The Forgotten daughter

The scent of washable paint, old juice boxes, and cinnamon graham crackers clung to the walls like the lingering echoes of little voices. Anya Petrova crouched down beside a plastic table smeared with glitter glue and tiny fingerprints. A lopsided construction paper crown perched on her head, sliding to one side like a drunken halo.

"Okay, Kings and Queens of the Crayon Kingdom, it's cleanup time!" she declared with mock severity, wagging a glitter-dusted finger at the room full of preschoolers. Half of them groaned. The other half ignored her entirely.

Only Zoe, in the far corner with a paper butterfly clipped into her wild golden curls, hopped up with too much eagerness for a four-year-old at the end of the school day. Her eyes, unnervingly serious, scanned the room and then darted to the cubbies where something had been hidden earlier. She gave Anya a look-a conspiratorial look-and then mouthed, "Ready."

Anya blinked. "Ready for what-"

"NOW!" Zoe yelled.

Suddenly, the kids burst into song. It was mostly off-key and full of conflicting lyrics-some were singing "Happy Birthday," others had skipped to "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow," and one very enthusiastic child had opted for the opening bars of "Let It Go." But the effect was unmistakable.

Behind them, Miss Sandra emerged from the teacher's lounge, holding a card the size of a pizza box. Painted child-sized handprints formed a rainbow across the front, and written in large glitter letters were the words:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISS ANYA!"

Anya's mouth fell open. She pulled the paper crown straight, just in time for Zoe to race forward and slam the card into her chest with the unrestrained force of love only a four-year-old can muster.

"You made this?" Anya asked, already choking back a laugh, her arms wrapping around Zoe's small frame.

"I helped," Zoe said proudly. "The red hand is mine. And the purple finger smudge."

Miss Sandra leaned against the wall with a smirk. "You're lucky we didn't let them bake you a cake. We narrowly avoided a glitter batter situation."

Anya smiled. "That's the best kind of disaster."

She took the card and flipped it open. Inside were shaky signatures, fingerpaint blobs, and one message written neatly in marker, underlined three times:

"Thank you for being our warmest light – Happy 25th, Anya. Love, Your Tiny Army."

Anya blinked hard and closed the card before her eyes betrayed her. It wasn't often she felt seen. Not like that. Not even on her birthday.

"You okay?" Sandra asked, her voice low now. Genuine.

Anya nodded. "Just... wasn't expecting it. It's been a while since I celebrated, that's all."

"Well, you've got an hour before pickup. Go take a breath. I'll watch the monsters."

"Thank you."

She slipped into the break room with Zoe in tow, card in hand. The fluorescent lights flickered a little overhead, but the hum of the old fridge and the smell of stale coffee felt comforting. Familiar. Home, almost.

Zoe climbed up on the counter like she always did, swinging her feet.

"You didn't forget, right?" Zoe asked, too casually.

"Forget what, bug?"

"It's your birthday." Zoe squinted at her. "You didn't act excited."

Anya pulled a juice box from the mini fridge and passed it to her daughter. "When you're a grown-up, birthdays are less about cake and more about surviving the day with minimal glitter-related injuries."

Zoe took a long sip, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Can I stay up late tonight?"

"Nice try," Anya said. "But yes."

Zoe beamed.

The old radiator in the apartment hissed and clanked like it was trying to start a fight. The February chill outside had nothing on the steam-stifled heat inside, but Anya didn't complain. The air smelled like over-boiled pasta and butter, and a single candle flickered in a chocolate-frosted cupcake sitting crooked on a chipped plate.

Zoe stood on a chair in a too-big apron, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

"Your birthday feast, madam!" she announced, gesturing to the table with a dramatic bow. "Macaroni à la Zoe, and dessert of smushy cake!"

Anya pressed a hand to her chest. "This is better than any five-star restaurant."

Zoe's nose wrinkled. "What's five-star?"

"It means they give you teeny tiny food and charge you fifty dollars."

Zoe squinted. "That's dumb."

"Profoundly."

They sat at the table together, plates steaming. The pasta had slightly too much butter and no salt, but Anya ate it like it was gourmet.

Zoe, ever the negotiator, jabbed her fork toward the cupcake mid-meal. "One bite before the grown-up rules?"

"One bite," Anya said.

Zoe leaned over and sank her teeth into the side of the cupcake like a wild animal. Chocolate frosting smeared across her cheek. Anya laughed, and for a moment, the day's stress unraveled. Just for a moment.

A loud knock at the door broke the quiet. Three sharp raps, impatient and deliberate.

Zoe froze. "Maybe it's Carla?"

Anya nodded, though something about the knock felt...official.

She opened the door to reveal her best friend standing in her usual Friday night armor: high ponytail, sarcastic smirk, and a bottle of red wine swinging from one hand.

"Did someone order a bad influence?" Carla asked, waltzing in like she paid rent.

"Always," Anya said, hugging her with one arm.

Carla looked at the dinner table and gasped. "Oh my God. You made carbs. On your birthday. This is serious."

"I live dangerously."

"Clearly."

Carla set the wine down and reached into her tote bag. "Here. It's nothing fancy, but I know you. You're going to pretend birthdays don't matter, so I figured I'd annoy you with a present."

Anya took the small wrapped box. "You didn't have to-"

"I know I didn't have to. That's why I did."

Inside the box was a silver charm bracelet. Simple, delicate. One charm: a book. Anya traced her thumb over it.

"You always said if your life ever slowed down, you'd write one," Carla said softly. "Now maybe you'll remember."

Anya couldn't speak for a moment. She swallowed hard.

Zoe, of course, chose that moment to loudly declare, "Mommy cried over a card today too!"

Carla laughed. "Oh, my poor sentimental trash panda."

"I am not crying."

"I mean, you were. You're basically crying now."

Anya gave her the finger. Zoe gasped.

Carla raised her brows. "Didn't even make it to the wine before the birthday breakdown. We are ahead of schedule."

They laughed. The kind of laugh that only comes after surviving too much. The kind that holds a little crack in the middle.

Outside the windows, Brooklyn buzzed with quiet life: traffic lights blinking, someone yelling in Spanish on the sidewalk, a dog barking from a rooftop. But inside the apartment, warmth pulsed like a heartbeat.

Safe. Small. The kind of night Anya never let herself hope for more than.

And just as she lifted her wineglass to toast, the knock came again.

Not Carla this time.

Not friendly.

Three slow, heavy knocks.

Zoe looked toward the door.

Anya stood, heart already turning cold.

The knocking came again-three slow thuds, heavier than the first set. Not urgent, not aggressive. Just... unshakably sure of itself.

Anya moved toward the door with the hesitation of someone sensing a shift in gravity. Behind her, Zoe whispered, "Is it another surprise?"

Carla stood up, eyes narrowed. "That knock says Armani suit, not balloon delivery."

Anya cracked the door just enough to peer out. A man stood on the other side-early forties, clean-cut, with a charcoal gray overcoat tailored to lethal precision. His gloved hands held a slim black folio. He didn't smile.

"Miss Anya Petrova?" he asked, voice cool and exact.

"Yes?"

He slid a card through the gap. Heavy stock. Silver embossed lettering.

Volkov, Fallon & Mehra - Estate Counsel

"I have a delivery requiring signature. From the late Mr. Nikolai Volkov."

Anya's hand twitched. "What? That has to be a mistake."

"I'm afraid not."

Carla appeared beside her, grabbing the card. "Volkov as in the Volkov? Shipping, oil, industrial complex, rich enough to clone dinosaurs?"

The man remained impassive. "As in the one who passed two weeks ago. You've been named in his will."

Anya felt her knees loosen slightly beneath her. "I-I didn't know him. I don't understand."

"I'm not at liberty to explain the contents, ma'am. Just to ensure delivery and acknowledgment."

He held out the folio and a sleek pen.

Carla nudged her. "Sign it."

"I-what if it's-"

"If it's fake, we report it. If it's real, you just got mail from a dead billionaire. Either way, I need you to sign it before I start making conspiracy theories about your real dad being Lex Luthor."

Anya hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the pen.

She signed.

The man nodded, handed over the envelope, and turned without ceremony.

"No questions?" Carla called after him.

"None I'm paid to answer."

The hallway door shut with a soft mechanical click.

Anya stared at the envelope as if it were ticking.