As I turned to go, his main teacher, Ms. Carter, stepped closer and murmured, “Please don’t leave yet.”
Her voice was strained, like she was holding herself together by force.
My stomach dropped.
She didn’t respond—just glanced down the hallway and said, “Just… wait.”
Then I heard it.
A scream.
Not an ordinary toddler cry. Not frustration or a quick outburst.
This was fear—piercing, desperate, nonstop.
It echoed from a side hall parents weren’t meant to enter.
Ms. Carter looked at me, and my blood turned cold.
I started walking.
Then I noticed the door.
A plain, windowless storage door—locked from the outside.
A staff member stood guard in front of it, arms folded.
She frowned when she saw me. “Parents can’t be back here.”
Another scream cut through the air.
I knew that voice.
“Miles?” I said, my throat tightening.
Something primal took over.
I pushed past her and grabbed the handle. When it wouldn’t open, I slammed my shoulder into the door.
The lock gave way.
The door swung open.
And I stopped cold.
Miles was inside, curled in on himself, shaking. His face was flushed and streaked with tears. His small hands trembled like he didn’t know what to do with them. His backpack lay on the floor, as if it had been torn off.
He looked up at me, panicked.
“Mom,” he whispered, clinging to the word like it could save him.
I lifted him instantly, holding him so tightly my arms ached.
“What did you do to him?” I demanded.
The caregiver shrugged. “He was in timeout. You parents coddle them.”
Ms. Carter stood behind me, ghostly pale. “That isn’t allowed,” she said under her breath.
I walked straight to the office, Miles wrapped around my neck, refusing to let go.
“I want to see the security footage,” I said, steady despite the shaking in my hands. “Right now.”
The director, Mrs. Lang, stared at me.
Then the color drained from her face.
“You…” she faltered. “You weren’t meant to witness that.”
And in that moment, I understood.
The screaming hadn’t been a mistake.
It was standard practice.
Continue reading…
