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?”
She shrugged.
“Did something happen?
Did you have a fight with a cookie?” I was trying to be funny. It didn’t work.
I took her to Brenda’s anyway. Monica’s heart wasn’t in it, but what else could I do?
The next week, the monsoon hit.
“NO, MOM!
DON’T TAKE ME THERE!”
Monica wasn’t just protesting; she was vibrating. I was trying to guide her arms into her denim jacket, but she was clinging to me like a limpet. Her breath was coming in quick, jagged bursts.
I dropped to my knees, so I was eye level with her.
“Monica, look at me. What’s wrong? Why are you upset?”
Simon stepped into the hallway.
“What’s going on? We’re going to be late.”
“She doesn’t want to go to your mom’s,” I said, looking to him for some kind of “Dad Magic” solution.
He frowned. “That’s new.
Moni, what’s up? Is it the broccoli Grandma makes you eat?”
She didn’t answer. She just buried her face in the crook of my neck.
“I think it’s just a phase,” I whispered to Simon over her head. “Separation anxiety. It happens at this age, right?”
He nodded, though he looked uncertain.
“She’s been totally fine when I pick her up.”
Because of our staggered shifts, I always dropped Moni off in the morning, and Simon picked her up in the evening.
By the time he got there, she was always calm, usually clutching a container of some new baked good.
But the mornings?
The mornings became a war zone.
“Please don’t make me go,” she would plead. Every. Single.
Day.
“I just don’t want to,” she’d say, staring at the floor.
At the door of Brenda’s house, Monica would hold my hand with a crushing intensity.
Brenda would open the door, radiating her usual grandmotherly warmth. “There’s my baking buddy!
Ready to make some magic?”
Monica would walk inside like she was heading toward a dentist appointment. She would look over her shoulder at me, her eyes fixed on mine, until the door clicked shut.
It started to feel less like a phase and more like a warning.
It was the same pattern for weeks until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore.
That day started with the same script, but with more volume.
Monica cried. She begged. Then she grabbed my face with both hands.
I froze.
“Why? Why me, baby?”
“Then you’ll understand, Mommy.”
“Understand what? Can’t you tell me?
Can you draw me a picture?”
She just wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up. “You must fetch me, Mommy.”
She stopped crying then, but the silence felt worse than the screaming.
