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.
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.
And that was when everything inside me snapped into focus.
Johnny was sitting at the end of a long table, his head lowered. Beside him sat an older woman I didn’t recognize. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun. She wore no staff badge.
She picked up Johnny’s spoon and pushed it toward his mouth, pressing it against his lips. He turned his head away, silent tears streaming down his face.
“You’re not leaving until that plate is empty,” she said sharply.
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