2016 in the month of september, I welcomed a lovely baby boy, his name Luke, into the world. Like many working parents, once my maternity leave ended, I had to find someone I trusted to care for him. By November, we enrolled him in a local public daycare. There, he formed a quick and special bond with one of the teachers we’ll call her Shelia. She was warm, nurturing, and seemed to genuinely care. So when she decided to open her own in-home daycare, it felt natural to follow her. It felt safe. Our families grew close our kids played together, we spent weekends hanging out, and even my husband got along well with her husband, Richard. For a while, life felt settled.
That all changed in December 2017.
Richard was off work for a few weeks, and that’s when the red flags started. One week, he called to tell me Luke had fallen off the couch. Kids fall all the time I didn’t think about too it. The following week, he said Luke had been pushed off a Bumbo chair by another child and ended up with a scratch on his face. Oddly, Shelia wasn’t there during either incident. I was uneasy but tried not to overreact. Accidents happen, right?
Then came December 28th a day I’ll never forget. I had a lunch canceled and decided to drop by the daycare unannounced. Upon entering, I discovered Luke sprawled on the couch, hardly reacting. Something felt wrong closely. I picked him up and noticed swelling on his head. Richard told me Luke had fallen from a rocking chair while both he and Shelia were in another room. But Luke couldn’t stay awake. My gut told me something was terribly wrong. I called my husband, and we rushed to the hospital, driving as fast as we could.
At the ER, everything happened quickly. Physicians glanced at Luke and requested a CT scan. When the results came back, the words still echo in my head: “This looks like abuse.” He had a skull fracture that stretched from his temple all the way behind his ear. It hit me like a truck. More doctors came, more tests, and each one confirmed what I didn’t want to believe this wasn’t an accident. Someone had hurt my baby.
We take Luke to hospital. Luke was admitted to the pediatric ICU. My husband and I stayed by his side, trying not to fall apart in front of him. Over the next 48 hours, we answered questions from neurosurgeons, social workers, and investigators. We handed over medical records, cooperated with Child Protective Services, and did everything we could to clear ourselves and figure out what happened. It was so heartbreaking and I was broken because I was little careless and ignore these accidents.
We made the decision to quietly pull Luke from Shelia’s care. We told her it was time to prepare him for school. When I went back to pick up his belongings, I made the mistake of bringing Luke with me. At first, he was calm. But the moment Richard entered the room, Luke clung to me like he was terrified for his life. That moment shattered me. His fear said everything.
Soon after, Richard admitted to pushing Luke during one of the earlier “accidents.” But just before taking a polygraph, he hired a lawyer and refused to continue cooperating. In February 2018, he was arrested and eventually pleaded guilty to felony charges. He only served five days in jail.
One of the hardest parts now is how people react when I share this. Some say, “I would’ve killed him,” or “That’s why I don’t trust anyone,” or “But he seemed like such a great dad.” None of that helps. It only adds to the guilt I already carry the guilt of not seeing it sooner, of not protecting my son the way I should have.
I’ve learned to carry that pain quietly. I break down when I’m alone, away from Luke. He doesn’t need to carry this weight I’ll carry it for him. Every single day, I’m grateful there was no permanent damage. That he was too young to remember. And most of all, that he’s still here
