I always criticized my DIL’s parenting. Brooke hovered over my grandson like a prison guard. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” she’d say.
“Check his breathing every ten minutes.” I’d roll my eyes. The kid was three years old, not made of glass. But last Tuesday, she had no choice.
Emergency at work. She needed me to watch Benny for just two hours. “Fine,” I said.
“But no micromanaging.”
She dropped him off with a binder. A binder. Full of instructions.
Snack times. Emergency contacts. Photos of rashes to watch for.
I tossed it on the counter without opening it. Thirty minutes in, my phone rang. “Is he okay?” Brooke asked.
“He’s fine,” I said, annoyed. Twenty minutes later, she called again. “Did he eat his crackers?
The nut-free ones?”
“Brooke, I raised three kids. I know what I’m doing.”
By the eighth call in two hours, I’d had enough. “If you don’t trust me,” I snapped, “I’m bringing him back right now!”
She went quiet.
Then she hung up. I felt victorious. Finally, some peace.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was my son. His voice was shaking.
“Mom,” he said. “You did it. You actually did it.”
“Did what?” I asked, irritated.
“You fed him peanut butter crackers, didn’t you?”
My stomach dropped. I looked at the wrapper on the table. “Mom, Benny’s allergic.
We told you six months ago. Brooke has been calling because she saw the box in the background of your video call. She’s been trying to get you to check the…”
I turned around.
Benny was sitting on the couch. He looked pale. His lips were swelling.
I grabbed my phone. My hands were shaking. I opened the binder.
On the first page, in bold red letters, it said: SEVERE PEANUT ALLERGY. EPIPEN IN BAG. IF EXPOSED, CALL 911 IMMEDIATELY.
I looked at Benny. He coughed once, then looked at me with wide, confused eyes. I fumbled for the EpiPen.
My son was screaming through the phone. “Mom, did you give it to him yet? MOM?!”
But when I opened Benny’s backpack, the EpiPen wasn’t there.
And that’s when I realized why Brooke had been calling. She wasn’t checking on Benny. She was trying to tell me she’d accidentally left it.
My world tilted on its axis. The phone clattered from my hand onto the floor, my son’s panicked voice a tiny, tinny scream from the speaker. “The bag,” I mumbled, my mind a fog of pure terror.
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