My 4-year-old used to love going to my MIL. Then she began begging me not to take her. “Let YOU pick me up — not Dad! Then you’ll understand!” she said one day. So I went early. When I looked through the kitchen window and saw what my MIL was doing with my daughter, I stormed inside.
My husband, Simon, and I both worked full-time, which meant our four-year-old daughter, Monica, spent most days with my mother-in-law, Brenda.
The last morning before things started going wrong started like any other.
“Grandma! I’m here!” Monica yelled as she launched herself toward the front door.
“There’s my favorite girl,” Brenda scooped Monica up. “We’re making cookies today.”
Monica squealed with excitement.
I blew Monica a kiss. “See you later, sweetheart. Have fun.”
The last morning before things went wrong started like any other.
Monica gave me a distracted wave. “Bye, Mommy!”
She didn’t even look back. I walked to my car feeling that weird pang of “I’m glad she’s happy” mixed with “Don’t you miss me at least a little bit?”
***
When I walked through the door that evening, Monica met me holding a plastic Tupperware container.
“Look what we made!”
Inside were a dozen lopsided sugar cookies buried under a tectonic plate of pink frosting.
She didn’t even look back.
“Yummy,” I said.
“I did the sprinkles all by myself.” She puffed out her chest.
Simon leaned over. “Wow. These look professional.”
Monica looked up at him with deadpan seriousness. “They’re not ‘fessional,’ Daddy. They’re heart cookies.”
We laughed. We ate the sugar bombs, and life was good.
Or so I thought.
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