I dropped my son off like I always did—until his teacher pulled me aside and whispered, “Don’t leave yet.” My stomach sank when I heard my baby screaming from a locked room.

Mrs. Lang tried to regain control—far too quickly.

She rose from her chair, pasting on a courteous smile that never reached her eyes. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she said smoothly. “Toddlers cry. Daycare can be overwhelming.”

Miles shuddered against me, his face buried in my shoulder. Each time a door clicked somewhere nearby, his body jolted like he was bracing for something bad.

I held her gaze. “You locked my child in a room,” I said evenly. “And you’re asking me not to overreact?”

Her smile faltered. “That’s not how it happened.”

I tightened my arms around Miles. “Then let me see the video.”

She paused—just long enough.

“The cameras,” she said carefully, “aren’t operational today.”

Behind her, Ms. Carter’s eyes widened.

That told me everything.

Because one thing I’ve learned: people with nothing to hide don’t hesitate.

I pulled out my phone. “Alright,” I said. “Then I’ll call licensing. And the police.”

“There’s no reason to escalate this,” Mrs. Lang snapped.

“Then show me the footage.”

Her voice dropped. “We can talk about this in private.”

“There is nothing private about what you did to my child.”

I set Miles on the lobby couch, keeping my hand firmly on his shoulder so he knew I wasn’t leaving.

Then I turned to Ms. Carter. “Did you hear him screaming?”

She nodded once. “Yes.”

“Has this happened before?”

Her mouth trembled before she answered. “Yes.”

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Lang barked. “Rebecca, stop.”

But Ms. Carter didn’t back down. Her voice was quiet, steady. “It’s been going on for weeks. They call it ‘reset time.’ Children are locked in until they stop crying.”

My vision burned.

Mrs. Lang shot her a warning glare. “You’re breaking policy.”

“No,” Ms. Carter replied. “I’m protecting kids.”

My hands shook, so I clenched them tight.

I faced the director again. “Pull the video.”

Mrs. Lang’s expression hardened, the mask finally gone.

“There are legal restrictions,” she said. “Parents aren’t allowed—”

“He’s my son,” I cut in. “I’m his legal guardian. If you refuse, I’ll subpoena the footage. If it disappears, that’s evidence tampering.”

The word evidence changed the air.

Her throat tightened.

She glanced toward the hallway—toward the caregiver who’d dismissed my child as “dramatic.”

Then she looked back at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please… don’t do this.”

I met her stare. “So it’s real.”

She didn’t answer.

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