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.
“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.
Johnny stopped mid-sob. Completely still. His eyes went wide, his body trembling as if he’d been startled into silence. That was the moment it hit me.
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.
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