I asked my MIL to watch my 4-year-old for a couple of hours. But when I got back, my little boy was sitting all alone on the front steps. I rushed inside—no MIL, no note.
I grabbed my phone and called her. She picked up sounding cheerful. “Oh, don’t worry!
I just ran out for a quick coffee and manicure. He looked like he wanted some fresh air!”
My mouth went dry. I couldn’t even get words out for a second.
My son, Micah, had dirt on his knees and tear streaks on his cheeks. He looked confused, like he wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong. “Mom,” I said, trying not to yell, “you left him alone?
Outside?”
She laughed like I was overreacting. “It was only ten minutes. I kept an eye from the car for a bit.
He looked fine. It’s a safe neighborhood!”
Safe neighborhood or not, he’s four. And she didn’t even tell me she was leaving.
I hung up on her. I didn’t trust myself to say anything else without cussing her out. My husband, Rami, tried to stay neutral.
“She meant well,” he said, like that made it better. “She raised three kids, remember?”
I bit my tongue. Sure, she raised three kids—in the ’80s, when car seats were optional and no one blinked at toddlers playing in the street.
But this? This felt careless. I told him I needed a break from his mom.
And that she wasn’t watching Micah again, not until she could treat it like a real responsibility, not a casual favor. He didn’t fight me on that. Not then.
A few weeks passed. Micah was back to himself, no more talking about “being brave on the steps.” I almost started to relax. But then my birthday came around.
Rami surprised me with a spa day. Full massage, facial, pedicure—the works. He even got a sitter.
Or so I thought. Halfway through my massage, I checked my phone. Ten missed calls from a neighbor.
Three voicemails. One from my friend across the street:
“Call me now. Your MIL is back at your house.
And Micah’s outside again.”
I didn’t even change out of the robe. I grabbed my things, ran barefoot to the car, and sped home. Sure enough, there he was.
Sitting on a patch of grass this time, next to a juice box and a half-eaten granola bar. My MIL was inside—painting her nails at the kitchen table like it was nothing. I didn’t yell.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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