Until recently, daycare had been the happiest part of my three-year-old son’s world.
Johnny used to wake up before my alarm, already humming little made-up songs as he pulled on his socks. He’d stuff his backpack with tiny action figures he wasn’t supposed to bring and race down the stairs shouting, “Let’s go, Mommy!” as if daycare were some grand adventure instead of a building full of finger paint and snack time.
If I’m being honest, there were moments when I felt a little sting of jealousy. My son couldn’t wait to leave me and spend his day with other people. But I told myself that was a good thing. It meant he felt secure. It meant he was happy. It meant I’d chosen a place where he felt comfortable and cared for.
That belief shattered on a random Monday morning.
I was in the kitchen pouring my first cup of coffee when I heard it.
Not whining. Not fussing.
A scream.
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