“Stop it,” I snapped. “You have to go.”
The sound of my own words made me flinch. But nothing compared to what it did to him.
He wasn’t being stubborn.
My baby was afraid.
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.
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.
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