I dropped to my knees in front of him, pulling him into my arms. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “Mommy’s sorry.”
When his breathing steadied, I asked quietly, “Sweetheart… why don’t you like daycare anymore?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt.
Then he whispered something so soft I almost missed it.
“No lunch.”
I froze.
“No lunch?” I repeated, my voice barely steady.
He nodded and buried his face in my chest, as if he’d said something shameful.
My mind raced. Johnny wasn’t a picky eater. He was just small. He ate when he was hungry and stopped when he was full. I had never forced him to eat, and no one else should have either.
What could lunch possibly have to do with this level of fear?
I kept him home that day. I was lucky that my neighbor’s teenage son, Kenny, was available to babysit. Johnny adored him, and for the first time all week, I saw my son relax.
The next day was Saturday, but I still had work to finish. Johnny’s daycare was open on weekends, and parents often used it to run errands or catch up.
So I tried a different approach.
I knelt in front of him, met his eyes, and said, “I’ll pick you up before lunch. You won’t have to stay for it.”
He hesitated. Sniffled. Then nodded.
It was the first time all week he let me buckle him into his car seat without crying.
At drop-off, he didn’t run inside like he used to. He held my hand until the very last second, his fingers tight around mine. The look he gave me when I left—pure desperation—nearly broke me.
I spent the next three hours staring at the clock.
At 11:30, I packed up my things, left early, and drove straight to the daycare.
Parents weren’t allowed inside during meals, but the dining area had glass panels along the side of the building. I walked around and peeked through one of the windows.
