When my mother-in-law offered to help for once, I should’ve known there was a catch. One lie. One pair of scissors.
And suddenly, my daughter’s trust — and her hair — were gone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg.
I made one phone call. And the next day, she woke up ruined. When my husband, Theo, told me his mother had offered to watch our daughter for the day, I blinked at him like he’d just asked if I wanted to set the house on fire.
“Your mom offered?” I repeated. “Denise?”
Theo nodded without looking up from his phone. “Yeah.
I think she wants to help. It’s just one day, Hilary.”
My daughter, Theresa, had been up half the night with a fever and a sore tummy. She was eight, and her long golden hair was plastered to her forehead.
I had already called into work once this month, and today wasn’t optional. “When did you tell your mom that we needed her to babysit?” I asked. “When you were in the shower.
She called me to ask if I could pick up a package for her. She offered to babysit, and I said yes.”
When Denise, the woman, who for eight years refused to babysit, because her “dog gets separation anxiety,” suddenly offered, I should’ve trusted my gut and said no. Instead, I kissed Theresa’s head, handed over a bottle of fever medicine, and gave Denise a list of clear instructions.
No outside time, no visitors, and absolutely no cold beverages. “She needs rest, cartoons, and fluids, Denise. Please,” I said slowly, as if speaking to someone I didn’t quite trust.
I almost laughed. Almost.
By noon, I was half-reading an email when my phone lit up with Theresa’s name. Theo and I agreed that eight was too young for a phone, but when I’d upgraded mine, I’d chosen to give her my old phone for days like this, when we were separated. The second I answered, I heard it — the kind of crying where a child can barely catch her breath.
“Mom,” Theresa gasped. “Please come home. Grandma lied to me.
Mommy, please.”
“What do you mean, baby? Lied about what?” I asked, grabbing my bag. “Are you okay?”
“She said she was going to braid my hair and make it beautiful,” Theresa said, sobbing harder.
“But she cut it. She said you wanted it short.”
My keys were in my hands. “Just keep breathing, my sweetheart.
I’m on my way. I’ll be there before you know it.”
Half an hour later, when I walked in the front door, I heard sweeping. Denise was in the kitchen, humming like she was about to bake cookies.
The story doesn’t end here –
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