At 2:25 PM on a normal Friday, I got a call from my six-year-old son, Ben. His voice was a whisper:
“Mommy… I’m afraid.” He was supposed to be safe at home with our trusted babysitter, Ruby. But he said she’d “fallen down” and wouldn’t wake up. I left work immediately and raced home. When I arrived, Ben was hiding in the hallway closet, clutching his stuffed dinosaur.
He’d tried to help Ruby—brought her a pillow, spilled water, even used the ice pack I keep for bruises. But when she didn’t wake, he hid. Alone. Scared. I found Ruby on the living room floor, unconscious but breathing. Only then did I remember to call 911. The paramedics said she’d collapsed from dehydration and low blood sugar.
It was serious, but not fatal.Still, what haunted me most wasn’t Ruby—it was Ben. Two years earlier, he and I had found his father dead from a sudden heart attack. Ben was only four then. And now, once again, he thought someone he cared about had died right in front of him. That night, as I tucked him into bed, he asked, “Did Ruby die… like Daddy?”
I told him no. She was okay. But I saw in his eyes that some part of his innocence had cracked again. And it broke me. Ben had been so brave. He remembered what I’d taught him. He called me. He stayed calm. But in doing that, he stepped out of childhood—for just a moment. People think parenting is about protecting your child. Sometimes, it’s about realizing they protected you. And wondering if you’ll ever be strong enough to deserve that kind of love.