I dropped my son off like any other day—until a teacher stopped me and quietly said, “Please don’t go yet.” My heart dropped as I heard my child screaming from behind a locked door. I burst inside and went numb. My son was trembling, and the caregiver scoffed, “He’s just being dramatic—stay out of it.” I swept him into my arms and demanded the security footage. The director’s face drained of color. “You… weren’t meant to see that,” she said. What I discovered next sealed my resolve—someone would be held accountable.
I dropped my son off the way I always did—same routine, same grin, the same tiny wave as he hurried toward the toys.
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His name is Miles. He’s three. The kind of child who hugs you for a moment, then immediately forgets you because there are blocks to stack, crayons to grab, and dinosaurs to play with. For months, daycare had felt safe. The teachers knew his favorite stories. The director sent upbeat emails. Everything seemed fine.
Until that morning.
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