My 4-year-old used to love going to my MIL. Then she began begging me not to take her. “Let YOU pick me up — not Dad!
Then you’ll understand!” she said one day. So I went early. When I looked through the kitchen window and saw what my MIL was doing with my daughter, I stormed inside.
My husband, Simon, and I both worked full-time, which meant our four-year-old daughter, Monica, spent most days with my mother-in-law, Brenda.
The last morning before things started going wrong started like any other.
“Grandma! I’m here!” Monica yelled as she launched herself toward the front door.
“There’s my favorite girl,” Brenda scooped Monica up. “We’re making cookies today.”
Monica squealed with excitement.
I blew Monica a kiss.
“See you later, sweetheart. Have fun.”
Monica gave me a distracted wave. “Bye, Mommy!”
She didn’t even look back.
I walked to my car feeling that weird pang of “I’m glad she’s happy” mixed with “Don’t you miss me at least a little bit?”
***
When I walked through the door that evening, Monica met me holding a plastic Tupperware container.
Inside were a dozen lopsided sugar cookies buried under a tectonic plate of pink frosting.
“Yummy,” I said.
“I did the sprinkles all by myself.” She puffed out her chest.
Simon leaned over. “Wow. These look professional.”
Monica looked up at him with deadpan seriousness.
“They’re not ‘fessional,’ Daddy. They’re heart cookies.”
We laughed. We ate the sugar bombs, and life was good.
Or so I thought.
The following day, Simon brought out a plastic container near the end of dinner. “Dessert courtesy of Chef Monica. Brownies, today.
She’s on a roll.”
I turned to Monica with a smile, but she was scowling at her peas. “I don’t want any.”
She shrugged and slid off her chair. “I’m not hungry.”
“Monica?
Are you okay?”
She walked away without answering. Moments later, I heard her bedroom door shut.
I turned to Simon. “What was that about?”
“No idea.
She was in a wonderful mood when I picked her up from Mom’s place. My mom said they had a blast.”
I looked at the brownies. They looked perfect — too perfect for a four-year-old.
The following morning, I helped Monica get ready like usual.
“Time to get ready for Grandma’s, Moni.” I held out her sneakers.
She looked down at her small, interlaced fingers.
“Do I have to go today?”
I laughed. “Since when do you not want to see Grandma?”
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