If the parents were like this, their kids wouldn’t be any better.
If something happened to my son, I’d never forgive myself.
I sat by his bed, watching his steady breathing, guilt gnawing at me.
Because of my work, I couldn’t always be there for him.
My husband, John Foster, was overseas on urgent business, so only the nanny had been looking after him.
The next morning, Emma woke up, rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and then threw himself into my arms, beaming.
“Mom! You’re back!”
I swallowed the ache in my throat, stroked his hair, and gently asked:
“Emma, have you been happy at the activity center lately?”
His eyes flickered for a moment before he gave me a bright smile.
“Yes! Everyone’s been really nice to me.”
“Oh, and we have a race today. I want to cheer for my best friend!”
Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I couldn’t say no.
I crouched down and held out my pinky.
“Then promise me this: after today, I’ll transfer you to a better activity center, okay?”
Emma hooked his little finger with mine without hesitation.
After breakfast, I personally dropped him off.
Only after confirming with the staff several times did I finally head home.