“She doesn’t want to go to your mom’s.”
Because of our staggered shifts, I always dropped Moni off in the morning, and Simon picked her up in the evening.
By the time he got there, she was always calm, usually clutching a container of some new baked good.
But the mornings? The mornings became a war zone.
“Please don’t make me go,” she would plead. Every. Single. Day.
“Why, baby? Just tell me why.”
“I just don’t want to,” she’d say, staring at the floor.
The mornings became a war zone.
At the door of Brenda’s house, Monica would hold my hand with a crushing intensity.
Brenda would open the door, radiating her usual grandmotherly warmth. “There’s my baking buddy! Ready to make some magic?”
Monica would walk inside like she was heading toward a dentist appointment. She would look over her shoulder at me, her eyes fixed on mine, until the door clicked shut.
It started to feel less like a phase and more like a warning.
It was the same pattern for weeks until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore.
It started to feel less like a phase and more like a warning.
That day started with the same script, but with more volume.
Monica cried. She begged. Then she grabbed my face with both hands.
“You pick me up today — not Daddy!”
I froze. “Why? Why me, baby?”
“Then you’ll understand, Mommy.”
“Understand what? Can’t you tell me? Can you draw me a picture?”
She just wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up. “You must fetch me, Mommy.”
She grabbed my face with both hands.
She stopped crying then, but the silence felt worse than the screaming.
For the first time, I wasn’t just confused about Monica’s behavior. I was afraid.
***
That afternoon, I drove to Brenda’s house with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I didn’t tell Simon or Brenda that I was going to be there.
I parked outside and walked up to the front door.
As I got closer, I heard Brenda speaking in a sharp voice.
I wasn’t just confused about Monica’s behavior. I was afraid.
It was coming from the half-open kitchen window.
“One more time, sweetheart. Big smile. Say it just like we practiced. Energy!”
I tiptoed over to the window and looked through the gap in the blinds.
The kitchen looked like a film set. There was a massive LED ring light on a tripod, casting a harsh, clinical glow across the room. A smartphone was clipped into a holder.
Monica was standing on a wooden stool. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face looked puffy, like she’d been crying for an hour.
Brenda was standing behind the camera, adjusting the angle.
The kitchen looked like a film set.
I felt the air leave me as if I’d been punched. Then, a pure, white-hot rage started in my gut and moved to my fingertips.
I stormed through the front door and moved toward the kitchen.
I stopped in the doorway. Monica hadn’t seen me yet. She was clutching a metal heart-shaped cookie cutter in her fist.
She swallowed hard. “Hi, friends… today we’re making—”
Brenda sighed. “You forgot your happy face, sweetie. It’s okay. Let’s reset. Shoulders back. Remember, happy face!”
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