My husband was supposed to be home with our three-year-old while I worked extra shifts. Then my neighbor called, sick and panicked, asking when I was coming to pick up my daughter. What I learned next made me realize I didn’t just have a childcare problem — I had a trust problem.
I’m Karen (32F).
My husband Ben is 34. Our daughter Melissa is three, which means she has opinions and a volume setting that doesn’t work.
A month after Melissa was born, I went back to work. Not because I wanted to.
Because bills don’t care.
This spring, Ben got laid off.
He acted calm.
And I believed him. Ben’s always been a good dad. Present.
Patient. The kind who can do bedtime without calling me like tech support.
So I picked up extra shifts.
Then Tuesday happened.
At 3:00 p.m., my phone rang. Diane.
Diane is our neighbor.
Older, kind, and she has asthma. When Diane says she’s sick, you listen.
She sounded rough.
“Karen,” she wheezed, “when are you coming to pick up Melissa?”
I went cold. “Pick up Melissa?”
Diane coughed hard.
“Honey, I’m sick. Ben isn’t answering.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why is Melissa with you?” I asked.
A pause. Then Diane said, “Ben has been dropping her here every day for two weeks.
Morning to evening. I thought you knew.”
Two weeks.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “I’m coming now.”
“Please,” Diane said.
“I don’t want her catching this.”
I didn’t even hang up politely. I just moved.
I told my supervisor, “My kid is not where she’s supposed to be. I’m leaving.” And I walked out.
On the drive, my brain did the worst thing and filled in blanks with horror.
When I got to Diane’s, Melissa ran out in mismatched socks, waving a crayon drawing.
“MOMMY!”
Diane stood behind her, pale and miserable.
“Thank you,” Diane whispered.
“I didn’t want to call, but I can’t do this today.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
Diane gave me a tired look. “Ben told me you knew.”
“He lied,” I said.
“That ends today.”
I buckled Melissa in and drove home with my jaw locked.
I expected Ben to be out.
He was cooking, humming, like nothing was wrong.
“Hey, babe!” he said. “You’re home early.”
I didn’t take my shoes off.
“Diane called me,” I said.
Ben blinked. “Okay?”
“She’s sick,” I said.
“She asked when I was picking up Melissa.”
He frowned. “I dropped Mel off so I could cook.”
“She says you’ve been dropping her off every day for two weeks,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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