Part 1: The Morning My Son Begged Me Not to Go

I gathered him into my arms and rocked him until his breathing slowed. I whispered reassurances that felt thin even as I said them. Maybe it was a nightmare, I told myself. Maybe he was overtired. Toddlers go through phases. Everyone says that.

So I brushed it off.

But the next morning, he wouldn’t get out of bed.

The moment I mentioned daycare, his lip trembled. His eyes filled. By Wednesday, he was begging through tears. By Thursday, he was shaking, clinging to me, pleading in a way that made my stomach twist.

This wasn’t resistance.

It was terror.

By Thursday night, I was exhausted and frightened enough to call our pediatrician.

“It’s very common at this age,” Dr. Adams said kindly. “Separation anxiety peaks around three.”

“But this doesn’t feel like that,” I insisted. “This feels different. He’s scared.”

There was a pause. “Keep an eye on it,” she said gently. “It could be developmental.”

I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her.

Friday morning, I was already running late for work. Johnny was crying again in the hallway, and I did something I still regret.

I raised my voice.

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