Off The Record

My Wife Blamed Our 9-Year-Old — Then A Nurse Asked One Question

Published on October 21, 2026

He didn’t run to me.

That’s the thing that broke the whole afternoon open, and it happened before anybody said a word.

My nine-year-old son had been sitting alone in a pediatric emergency waiting room for an hour and forty minutes, and when he saw me come through those doors he stood up so fast his backpack tipped off the chair.

And then he stopped.

He just stood there, four feet away, twisting the cuff of his sweatshirt around his wrist, waiting to find out what I’d been told.

In nine years that boy had never once waited to find out what I’d been told.

My name is Paul Sutton. I’m forty-three. I run a shift at a distribution facility outside Columbus, Ohio, and before 4:52 on a Thursday afternoon in March I would have told you that the worst thing I’d done as a father was work too many hours.

I was wrong about that in a way I’m still, eighteen months later, working through with a counselor on Tuesday evenings.

The Call Came In at 4:52 and I Almost Didn’t Answer It

I was at the loading dock with a driver waiting on a bill of lading.

My phone went off in my vest pocket and it said MARISSA, and I remember being mildly annoyed, and I remember thinking I’d call her back in ten minutes.

And then I saw she’d already called twice.

“Paul!” — she was crying before I got a word out — “It’s Mia!”

My daughter is sixteen months old.

“What happened? Marissa, what happened?”

“She’s at the hospital. She couldn’t breathe, Paul, she couldn’t breathe, they think she got something in her throat—”

I was already walking. I handed a clipboard to a man I’d never met.

“Is she okay? Is she okay right now?”

“She’s — yes, she’s stable, they’ve got her stable, but—”

And then she said:

“Oh God, Paul. It was Logan. Logan did this.”

I Stopped Walking in the Middle of a Warehouse Floor

“What?”

“He gave her a piece off one of his toys. A little plastic piece. She put it in her mouth and she started choking, Paul, she turned colors—”

“Where is he? Where’s Logan?”

“He’s here. He’s with me. And Paul, I’m not comfortable leaving him alone with her. Not right now. Not after this.”

I stood on a concrete floor under fluorescent lights and could not make that sentence attach to anything in my life.

Logan is my son from my first marriage. He was nine. He lives with me five days out of seven and with his mother Odalys on weekends, and that arrangement has been in place since 2021 and has worked, and Odalys and I get along fine.

And Mia is his baby sister, and the word for how he felt about that baby is not “fond.”

He helped me put her crib together in the fall of 2024. Actually helped — he held the Allen wrench and read me the step numbers off the sheet and got genuinely heated when I skipped ahead.

He bought her a stuffed rabbit with his own allowance money. Nineteen dollars he’d saved since August, at a store in the mall, and he would not let me contribute.

And in January, when she first said something that was recognizably his name — “Lo-gin” — he called me at work. Nine years old, calling his father’s work line in the middle of a Tuesday, to report that the baby had said his name.

“Paul? Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m listening.”

And then my wife said the sentence that I have turned over about a thousand times since.

“I think he knew what he was doing. I’m telling you, Paul. I’m sure of it.”

That One Sentence Did More Damage Than Anything Else She Said and I Need to Explain Why

Because I didn’t dismiss it.

That’s the whole confession of this story and I’m putting it up front so nobody has to wait for it.

My wife told me, on a phone call, in a parking lot, that my nine-year-old son had deliberately hurt his baby sister — and I did not say that’s insane.

I said:

“Why would you think that?”

And she said:

“Because he resents her. He’s been resentful for months. He complains every single time I ask him to do anything with her. I’ve told you about this, Paul, I’ve told you a dozen times and you never take it seriously.”

And here’s the problem.

She had told me. Not a dozen times. But five or six times since about October, in small doses, usually at night, usually when I was tired.

Logan was difficult after school today.

Logan’s been having attitude.

I don’t think Logan likes being asked to help.

And every single time, I said some version of: he’s nine, it’s a phase, it’s a big adjustment having a baby in the house.

So when she said I’m sure of it on that phone call, there was already a file in my head with five or six entries in it, and she had put every one of them there, and I had never once checked a single one.

“Marissa, I’m forty minutes out. I’m leaving right now.”

“Good. Because Paul — I think he needs to stay somewhere else tonight. At his mom’s. Until we figure out what’s going on with him.”

And I didn’t answer that.

I want to be honest: I did not say no. I said nothing, and I hung up, and I got in my truck.

I Don’t Remember Most of That Drive and I Remember One Thing I Am Ashamed Of

I handed my keys to my shift supervisor, a guy named Mbeki, and said there was a family emergency, and he said go.

Forty-one minutes on I-71 and then the surface streets.

What I remember: both hands on the wheel. And Mia that morning, in her high chair at seven-fifteen, grabbing my index finger with her whole fist while I tried to get a spoon into her.

And one other thing, which I have told exactly two people before writing this.

Somewhere around the exit for the hospital, I thought:

What if he did?

Not she’s wrong. Not there’s no way.

What if he did.

I drove to a hospital where my son was sitting alone in a waiting room and I spent part of that drive building a case against him in my own head.

When I Got There My Wife Was at the Nurses’ Station and She Looked Like She’d Been Through Something

And she had. I want to be fair to her here, because this story does not end up being kind to Marissa and the fear that afternoon was real.

Her hair was half out of a ponytail. Her mascara had run down both cheeks in two tracks. Her hands were shaking.

She grabbed my forearm.

“They’ve got her on monitors. Her oxygen was down before the squad got there. They’re saying stable but they want eyes on her for a few hours.”

“Where is she?”

“Room seven.”

“Where’s Logan?”

And she tipped her head toward the waiting room without looking at it.

He Was in a Chair That Was Too Big for Him With His Backpack Between His Sneakers

Blue school sweatshirt. Jeans. The gray sneakers with the stripe that he’d picked out in August and that were already destroyed.

Backpack on the floor between his feet.

And he was so still. That’s what got me from across the room. Nine-year-old boys are not still. He was sitting with his hands in his lap in a plastic chair in an emergency department, completely motionless, looking at the doors.

He saw me and he came up out of that chair fast and knocked the backpack over.

“Dad?”

And then he stopped.

I crossed that room and he did not move toward me. He stood where he was and twisted the cuff of his sleeve around his wrist, which is a thing he does when he’s in trouble, and which I have known about since he was four.

And what I understood, in that specific second, is that my son was waiting to find out which version of his father had just walked through those doors.

Somebody had already told him what he was being accused of. He’d been sitting in that chair for an hour and forty minutes with it.

I Asked the Wrong Question First and I’ll Regret That for a While

I said: “Where’s Mia?”

That’s what came out. Not are you okay. Not come here.

Where’s Mia.

And his eyes went glassy immediately and he said:

“Is she gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, buddy. They said she’s stable. She’s gonna be okay.”

And he let out this long shaky breath — the kind that’s been held for a while — and he said:

“I was trying to help her, Dad.”

And before I could answer that, Marissa stepped in between us.

Physically between us. Put her shoulder in the gap.

“Logan. We need to hear exactly what you did.”

He dropped his eyes to the floor.

And I said: “Not now.”

“Paul, he needs to understand how serious—”

“Marissa. Give him a minute.”

And Then a Nurse Walked Up With a Tablet and Asked a Question That Took the Whole Afternoon Apart

She was maybe thirty. Scrubs, hair up, badge that said HANNAH and under it RN.

“Are you Mia’s dad?”

“Yes.”

“She’s doing better. Her sats have been good for the last forty minutes and the doc’ll come talk to you soon.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

And then she looked at Logan.

Just for a second. A quick look, down at a nine-year-old in a blue sweatshirt, and then back up.

And she turned to Marissa and said, in the flattest, most administrative voice in the world:

“I need to confirm something for the chart. Who was supervising Mia when she started having difficulty breathing?”

And my wife opened her mouth.

And nothing came out.

I Watched My Wife of Three Years Not Answer a Question, and the Silence Lasted About Four Seconds

Four seconds is nothing. Four seconds is a long time.

And then she said:

“I was—”

And her eyes went down the hallway. Away from all three of us.

“I had stepped out for a minute.”

Hannah did not look up from the tablet.

“Out of the room?”

And Marissa shifted her weight.

“Out of the house. Just for a little bit.”

My Wife Works From Home. She Was at the Kitchen Counter With Her Laptop When I Left That Morning.

I want to put that here because that’s the moment the floor moved.

Marissa works remote. Account management for a software company. Four years.

That morning at six-fifty I came through the kitchen with my travel mug and she was at the counter with her laptop open and her coffee, and she said — and I remember this exactly, because of what happened later —

“Quiet day today. Two calls and then nothing.”

“Where did you go?” I said.

“To the store.”

“Which store?”

“Paul. Does that matter right now?”

And Hannah the nurse, without any change in her voice at all, typed something into that tablet and asked the next question.

“Was there another adult in the home?”

And Marissa said: “No.”

And then Hannah turned, and crouched down about eight inches — which I noticed, I noticed that she got lower — and said to my son:

“So you were home with your baby sister, sweetheart?”

And Logan nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, honey.”

And she stood back up and looked at Marissa and said five words.

“We’ll need to talk about that.”

And she walked away.

And Then My Wife Turned to Me and Doubled Down, and That Is the Part I Cannot Get Past

Not the leaving. The leaving was a bad decision and people make bad decisions.

Hannah walked off down that corridor and Marissa stepped up close to me and lowered her voice and said:

“See? Do you see now? This is exactly why I think Logan needs to be at his mother’s for a while. I step out for twenty minutes and ask him to keep an eye on his sister and this is what happens.”

I step out for twenty minutes and ask him to keep an eye on his sister.

She’d just told a nurse there was no adult in the home.

And she was standing there explaining to me that the problem in that sentence was the nine-year-old.

I turned and looked at my son.

He was staring at the floor tiles and his ears were red.

I Got Down on My Knees on a Hospital Floor and Asked Him Directly

Not standing over him. On the floor, in front of that chair, at his eye level, because somewhere in my head a nurse crouching down eight inches had taught me something in about four seconds.

“Logan. Look at me, buddy. Did you give Mia anything? Anything small, anything she could put in her mouth?”

And he looked right at me and said:

“No, Dad.”

“Okay. Then I need you to tell me what happened. All of it. You’re not in trouble. I need you to tell me.”

And he swallowed and said:

“I was just trying to do my math.”

And Marissa made a noise behind me — this exhale — and said:

“I don’t know why he keeps saying that.”

And that’s when I knew.

Because my son wasn’t looking at her. He hadn’t looked at her once.

He was looking at me, and the look on his face was not the look of a kid who has been caught.

It was the look of a kid who has been trying to tell somebody something for an hour and forty minutes and cannot get anybody to hold still long enough.

And then he whispered it. Four feet from his stepmother, in a waiting room, with his hands in his lap:

“Dad. Please don’t make me leave home.”

Here Is What Actually Happened in My House That Afternoon, and It Took Three Weeks to Get All of It

I’m going to give it to you in order, the way it eventually came together, from Logan, from a neighbor, from Marissa herself in a conversation in April that was the hardest conversation of my life, and from a report.

Logan got home from school at 3:40. He takes the bus. The stop is at the end of our street.

Marissa left the house at approximately 3:50.

She did not go to a store. She went to a wine bar in a shopping center about nine minutes from our house, where she met a woman she works with. I’m going to leave that there, because it was not what the internet decided it was — there was no affair, I want to say that clearly, and the woman is real and the sheriff’s office spoke to her — but my wife went to a bar at ten minutes to four on a Thursday and told my son to watch the baby.

What she said to him, in his words, which have never changed in eighteen months:

“She said, ‘I’m running out. Mia’s in the pack-and-play, she’s fine, don’t wake her up, I’ll be twenty minutes.’”

She was gone fifty-one minutes. That’s from her phone, and from the card transaction, and from the neighbor who saw her car come back.

Mia did not stay in the pack-and-play. A sixteen-month-old can get out of a pack-and-play and Mia had been doing it since February and Marissa knew that and I knew that and we had talked about getting a different one.

And what Mia got into was not a piece of Logan’s toy.

It was the cap off a tube of something in a basket of Marissa’s things on the end table by the couch. A small hard plastic cap, about the size of a nickel.

The hospital documented what it was. I’m not going to put the specific item in an article because it doesn’t matter and because it would make it sound like somebody did something exotic, and nobody did. It was an ordinary household item on an end table in a living room where a baby was.

And here is what my nine-year-old son did, between about 4:28 and 4:33 on a Thursday afternoon, alone in a house.

He Did Four Things in About Five Minutes and Every Single One of Them Was Right

One: he heard her. He was at the kitchen table with a math worksheet and he heard the baby make a sound that wasn’t right, and he got up and went in.

Two: he did the back blows. He got her out of that sitting position and face-down along his forearm — he’s nine, she’s twenty-four pounds, I don’t know how he physically managed it — and he hit her between the shoulder blades.

He learned that in the fall of 2024. There was a thing at his school, a safety assembly, where somebody from a fire department came in and showed the fourth grade what to do if a baby is choking.

I remember him telling me about it. In the truck. In October. And I remember what I said, and what I said was: “Huh. That’s good.”

That’s it. That’s the entire amount of attention I gave that.

Three: it came out. On the third or fourth back blow, by his account, and he said he heard it hit the floor, and the hospital later confirmed the object had been expelled and not aspirated, which is the single most important sentence in my daughter’s entire medical record.

Four: he called 911. Because she was still not breathing right. He did not call his stepmother. He did not call me. He called 911 from the kitchen phone — we still have a landline, which my wife had made fun of me for in 2023 — and he gave that dispatcher our address and said his sister couldn’t breathe right and that he was nine and he was by himself.

The 911 call is four minutes and eleven seconds long. I have heard it twice.

Nine years old. He gives the address. He says the words “my mom’s not here right now, she went out.”

And at two minutes in, the dispatcher asks him to put the phone on speaker and keep watching the baby, and you can hear him talking to Mia in the background.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Mimi. They’re coming. They’re coming, Mimi.”

Mimi. That’s what he calls her.

And When the Squad Got There, Marissa’s Car Pulled In Behind Them

That’s the timeline. She came home to an ambulance in our driveway.

And somewhere in the four or five minutes between her pulling in and the paramedics loading that baby, my wife made a decision.

I have thought about this for eighteen months and I have landed in a place that I think is fair: I don’t believe she sat down and planned anything. I think a terrified woman who had just realized what she had done looked for the first available version of events in which she was not the person who had done it, and a nine-year-old was standing right there.

And she said it to a paramedic. That’s what nobody expects.

She said it in our driveway, to the squad, at the scene — that Logan had given the baby a toy piece — and it went in the run report, and that’s why that report said what it said when the hospital read it.

Which is why Hannah the nurse looked at a chart that said a nine-year-old gave a baby an object, and then looked at a nine-year-old sitting alone in a plastic chair, and asked a question.

Nobody Was Arrested, Nothing Here Was a Crime, and I Need to Be Very Clear About This Part

The version of this going around online has my wife arrested and in handcuffs at a hospital. That’s not what happened and I’d rather tell the truth, because people build expectations off these stories and then the real system disappoints them.

Nobody was arrested. Not that night, not ever.

There was a report, and there was an investigation. Hannah’s five words — we’ll need to talk about that — were not a threat. They were a nurse telling us that she was legally required to document and report what she’d just been told, which she was, and which she did, correctly, and which I will be grateful for as long as I live.

An investigator from the county came out eleven days later. A woman named Delphine Okonkwo, who was in my living room for an hour and fifty minutes and who was better at talking to my son than I was.

And the finding, in May, was substantiated neglect, with services.

That’s the phrase. It means: yes, this happened, no, we are not removing anybody, here is what the family has to do.

What that meant practically:

A safety plan. In writing, signed, with specific terms. The main one, for six months, was that Marissa was not to be the sole supervising adult for either child.

Four months of in-home services with a worker who came every other Thursday.

And a court case that never happened, because we complied, and because the finding was neglect and not something worse, and because — and Ms. Okonkwo told me this directly — “Mr. Sutton, the system is not interested in taking children out of houses where the adults are actually fixing it.”

Mia was discharged at 9:40 that night. Five hours and change. She has no lasting effects. She is three now and she is in the phase where she narrates everything she does out loud.

What I Did That Night, and the Order I Did It In

I want to tell you what happened after that waiting room, because it’s the only part of this story I’d keep.

At about 6:15 I went in and saw my daughter. Monitors, a tiny hospital gown, asleep. I stood there for about four minutes.

At 6:30 I went back out to the waiting room. And Logan was in the chair again with his backpack between his feet.

And I sat down in the chair next to him. Not in front of him. Next to him, so we were both facing the same way, which is something I figured out by accident that night and which I now use on purpose.

And I said:

“Buddy. You saved her life.”

And he didn’t say anything.

“Do you hear me? You heard her, you did what they taught you at school, you got it out, and then you called 911. You did every single thing right. You’re nine years old and you did every single thing right.”

And he started crying, and then he put his head into my shoulder, and he cried for a long time. Minutes. The kind where it keeps restarting.

And in the middle of it, with his face in my jacket, he said the thing that is going to be in my head when I’m eighty:

“She said I did it.”

“I know.”

“She told the ambulance guy I gave Mimi the toy. And I didn’t.”

“I know you didn’t.”

And then he said:

“Why’d she say that?”

And I did not have an answer for a nine-year-old. I still don’t have a good one.

I said: “Because she was scared, and she was wrong, and it was not okay.”

Marissa and I Are Not Together Anymore, and I Want to Be Careful About How I Say This

We separated in June. The divorce was final in February of this year.

And I want to say some things that are true even though they’re complicated.

She has Mia every other week, and I never once tried to change that, and I never would have, because she is a good mother to that baby and that is also true.

She went to treatment in July — outpatient, eleven weeks — and I’m not going to say more about it than that, because it’s hers, and because she did it voluntarily and that counts for something.

She wrote Logan a letter in September of that year. Not an email. A handwritten letter, two pages, which she gave to me first and asked me to read and asked me to decide whether he should get.

I read it in my truck in a parking lot. And then I gave it to him, with his counselor present, and he read it, and he said “okay,” and he put it in the drawer of his nightstand, and it is still there, and he has never mentioned it again.

I have no idea if that’s good or not. Neither does his counselor.

She has apologized to me three times and to him once, in that letter, and I believe all four of them.

And I still have not forgiven her, and I don’t know if that’s a failing in me. Eighteen months and I’m not there.

The Part That’s Mine, and There Are Three Pieces of It

People have been good to me about this story and almost all of the praise has gone to Logan, where it belongs. But I have a part in this and I’m going to put it down.

One: she told me five or six times that he was “difficult,” and I never checked one single time.

That’s the mechanism of this whole thing.

Logan had attitude today. Logan was difficult after school. I don’t think Logan likes helping with her.

Five or six times, from October to March, usually at night, usually when I was coming off a ten-hour shift.

And every time I said he’s nine, it’s a phase.

I never once asked him. Not one time. In five months, I never said hey, buddy, how are things going with Marissa in the afternoons.

Because asking him would have meant treating my wife’s account as something other than settled fact, and because I was tired, and because the phase theory let me put my feet up.

And so by March there was a file in my head about my own son that had been built entirely by one person, with no verification, and when that person said I think he did it on purpose, the file was ready.

She didn’t frame him in one afternoon. She framed him over five months, in small installments, while I nodded and went to bed.

Two: on that drive, I thought “what if he did.”

I’m going to leave that there without softening it.

Forty-one minutes on a highway, and part of it, I was weighing whether my nine-year-old son had deliberately hurt a baby.

That’s not caution. That’s not open-mindedness. That is a father who had already partly bought it.

And he could see it. That’s the thing. When I came through those doors, he didn’t run to me, and the reason he didn’t run to me is that he could not tell, from across a room, whether his dad had arrived or something else had.

I did that. A boy stood still in a waiting room because he wasn’t sure, and the reason he wasn’t sure is the five months I never asked him anything.

Three: he told me about that school assembly in October and I said “huh, that’s good.”

In my truck. On the way home from something. He explained to me, at length, in the way nine-year-olds explain things, what the fire department guy had taught them about a choking baby.

And I said “huh, that’s good,” and I changed the station.

Five months later, a nine-year-old executed that procedure correctly on a twenty-four-pound sixteen-month-old, alone in a house, and it worked.

And I had given that conversation about nine seconds of my attention.

I did not teach my son the thing that saved my daughter’s life. A man from a fire department did it in a gymnasium in a forty-minute assembly, and my son retained it for five months, and his own father barely looked up.

What I’d Tell Any Parent Reading This on Their Phone Right Now

Three things. The third one is the one that actually matters.

One: ask the kid.

That’s it. That’s the whole first one.

If somebody — a spouse, a stepparent, a sitter, a coach — is giving you a running account of your child’s behavior that you are not independently checking, go check it.

Not confrontationally. Not as an investigation. Just: hey, how are afternoons going? Once a month, in the car, with the radio down.

I had five months and probably twenty chances and I used zero of them, and it cost my son an hour and forty minutes alone in a plastic chair believing his father might send him away.

Two: when a professional crouches down and asks a flat question, pay very close attention to who answers it.

Hannah the nurse asked the most boring question in the world. Who was supervising her?

Chart question. Administrative. Three seconds.

And my wife could not answer it.

I have thought about that nurse a hundred times. She did not accuse anybody. She did not raise her voice. She asked one factual question that had exactly one true answer, and she asked it with everybody standing there.

That’s the whole technique and I’ve used it twice since, in my own house, on much smaller things. Don’t argue. Ask the one question that only has one true answer, and then be quiet and see who can’t say it.

Three: a man from a fire department spent forty minutes in a gymnasium in October and that is the reason my daughter is three years old.

That’s the one I’d put on a wall.

Everybody wants this to be a story about a wife who lied and a father who almost believed her. And it is that, and I’ve told that part honestly.

But it isn’t actually what happened in my house on that Thursday.

What happened in my house on that Thursday is that a baby got something in her throat, and the only person present was a nine-year-old with a math worksheet, and that nine-year-old had been in a school assembly five months earlier.

Forty minutes. A volunteer. A plastic infant dummy on a gym floor. Fourth graders sitting cross-legged and probably mostly not listening.

My son listened.

And then he came home and told his father about it, and his father said “huh, that’s good.”

So here’s what I’d ask you to do, and it costs you nothing.

If your kid comes home and tells you about something they learned at school — anything, but especially something like this — give it ten minutes instead of nine seconds. Have them show you. Let them be the expert. Ask them what you do if it’s an adult instead of a baby.

And then go learn it yourself, because I didn’t know it. I want to say that plainly. On that Thursday afternoon, the only person in my family who knew what to do for a choking infant was in the fourth grade.

I took the class in June. Two hours, a community center, fourteen dollars.

Logan came with me. He already knew all of it and he corrected the instructor once, and the instructor checked, and Logan was right.

He’s eleven now. Sixth grade. He’s into basketball and he’s getting a smart mouth and he’s exactly who he’s supposed to be.

He has Mia on the floor with him most evenings doing something involving blocks and extremely specific rules that she doesn’t follow. She still calls him Lo-gin even though she can say it properly now, which I think is deliberate.

He went to a counselor named Noor for about seven months. The thing she told me that I needed most was this: she said he was not frightened about the choking. He had almost nothing to say about the choking.

What he kept coming back to, for seven months, was the hour and forty minutes in the chair.

And the stuffed rabbit — the nineteen-dollar one he bought with his own money in 2024 — is in Mia’s bed. It’s gray now and one ear is wrong and she will not sleep without it.

She does not know any of this happened. Someday she will and I have no idea how I’m going to tell her.

But I know what I’m going to lead with.

I’m going to tell her that she was sixteen months old, and the only person home was her nine-year-old brother, and he heard her from the kitchen.

Now I want to hear from you.

Here’s what I still turn over. My wife told a paramedic in our driveway that my nine-year-old had given the baby a toy piece — and she said it within minutes, before anybody had asked her anything, and it went in the report. She was terrified and she had just understood what she’d done and a child was standing right there. Eighteen months later she’s in treatment, she wrote him a letter, and she’s a good mother to our daughter. Is that a panicking woman reaching for the first story that wasn’t her fault, or is putting a nine-year-old in that report a thing you don’t come back from?

And the one I really want argued out in the comments on the Facebook video: she told me five or six times over five months that Logan was “difficult” and “resentful” of the baby, and I said “he’s nine, it’s a phase” every single time and never once asked him a question. So when she called me and said she was sure he did it on purpose, part of me believed her — and my son could see it on my face when I walked through those doors. How much of this belongs to the woman who left a sixteen-month-old with a fourth grader and went to a bar, and how much belongs to the father who spent five months never checking a single thing he was told about his own kid?

If this story got you, share it with your friends and family.

Somebody on your list has a kid who came home from school this year and tried to tell them about a safety assembly, and they said “huh, that’s good.” Send it to them. Tell them to ask the kid to show them.

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