Off The Record

My 3-Year-Old Begged Me Not To Take Him To Daycare—What I Found Inside Left Me Shaking

Published on October 11, 2025

Before he woke up one morning yelling and refusing to return, my son loved daycare. I was shocked by what I learned, even though I had assumed it was only a phase.

I am a 29-year-old single mother to my son, Johnny, who is three years old. Daycare was his thing up until a few weeks ago. However, that abruptly changed one day. He grew more and more hesitant to leave. Before I saw the facts for myself, I assumed it was just a tantrum.

Johnny would wake up happy and hum silly tunes whenever he had to go to daycare. He would virtually drag me out the door as he ran down the stairs while shouting, “Let’s go, Mommy!” and packing his backpack full of little action figures that he wasn’t supposed to carry.

For him, each morning was an adventure.

The fact that my son was eager to leave me and spend time with others, however, made me feel a little envious. I didn’t hold it against him, though. He was in a safe place that he was eager to visit, which I adored.

But then everything changed one haphazard Monday morning.

I heard it as I was pouring my coffee. It was a real scream! The type that causes your chest to tighten. I sprinted upstairs two steps at a time, dropping my mug and breaking it in the process!

With his face red and wet from sobbing, Johnny was curled up in the corner of his room, holding on to his blanket with both hands. With my heart racing, I quickly knelt down and examined him.

“Whatever happened, sweetheart? Are you in pain?” My dear, we must prepare to depart for daycare.

He yelled, “No, Mommy, no!” as he raised his enormous, terrified eyes to me. “Don’t force me to go!”

Bewildered, I blinked. “Go where?”

He moved to cling to my legs and cried, “Daycare!” his voice breaking on the word. “Please don’t make me!”

Whispering sweet words that didn’t seem like enough, I rocked and held him till he calmed down. I wondered if it was a bad dream. Or maybe he was too fatigued. “Toddlers have moods, right?” I dismissed it, thinking to myself.

However, it wasn’t a single day.

He refused to get out of bed the following morning!

When I brought up daycare, his mouth would quiver. By Wednesday, he pleaded with tears that he should not go. The same thing every morning. Panic, trembling, and begging were all present.

I was afraid and tired by Thursday night. I gave Dr. Adams, our doctor, a call.

Kindly, “It’s normal,” she said. “At this age, separation anxiety. It peaks at this time.”

My response was, “But it doesn’t feel normal,” “His moaning doesn’t seem like this. It is akin to terror. utter terror.”

She hesitated, presumably assuming I was being too nervous. “Watch it closely. He may simply be going through a developmental phase.”

I wished to trust her. Yes, I did.

Then Friday arrived. He was crying in the corridor once more as I was late for work. I’m sorry to say that, but I snapped.

“Stop it!” I yelled. “You have to go to daycare!”

I recoiled at the sound of my own voice. Even worse was the way Johnny froze like a deer in headlights and paused in the middle of his sob. He didn’t blink or move. My poor son just looked at me, trembling and wide-eyed.

Finally understanding that Johnny wasn’t being obstinate, I dropped to my knees in front of him; my baby was scared! Saying “I’m sorry,” I put my arms around him.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you like daycare anymore?”

At first, he didn’t respond. He looked at the floor instead, and then he said so softly that I nearly missed it.

“No lunch,” he noted. “Please, Mommy… no lunch.”

I went cold. Lunch? I felt sick to my stomach.

“No lunch?” I said it again.

After giving me a nod, he buried his face in my chest as though he was embarrassed. I felt sick to my stomach. I was aware that he was only a little eater and not a picky one. I never made him eat, and he never made himself eat when he wasn’t hungry.

How could this much fear be related to lunch?

That day, I chose to keep him at home. Fortunately, my neighbor’s teenage son, Kenny, was available and happily accepted the babysitting assignment. The nicest thing was that Johnny and Kenny got along like a house on fire since they were in love.

Saturday morning arrived, but I needed to catch up on some work. Additionally, Johnny’s daycare was available on weekends so that parents could take care of errands or relax.

I thus took a different, kinder approach. I lowered myself to his level and met his gaze.

As I said, “I’ll pick you up before lunch today,” “It won’t require you to stay. Alright?”

After he paused, still sniffling, he nodded. He had allowed me to buckle him into his car seat without crying for the first time this week.

He didn’t rush to the door as he always did at drop-off. Rather, he looked at me with large, beseeching, watery eyes. Until the final moment, his tiny hand held mine. His desperate expression when I left almost destroyed my heart.

I stared at the clock for the next three hours. I got ready, left work early, and drove to the daycare at 11:30 a.m.

During mealtimes, parents were not permitted inside. However, the eating area’s walls featured glass panels, so I went around the structure and took a side view.

And my blood boiled at what I witnessed!

I scanned the room with my face against the window. And I let out a loud gasp when I finally realized what was happening to my son:

“No way!”

At the end of a long lunch table, head down, sat my darling Johnny. I didn’t recognize the older woman sitting next to him. She had no staff badge on and her gray hair was tied back in a tight bun.

Her expression was severe, almost cruel.

She took Johnny’s spoon and pushed it hard against his lips as she pressed it toward his mouth.

She continued to cry even though he turned his head and sobbed softly.

She reprimanded him, saying, “You’re not leaving until that plate is empty,”

That was it. The door smashed into the wall when I pushed it open with such force! A couple of employees leaped.

“Madam! You’re not allowed in here—”

“I don’t care!” With my fists clenched and my heart pounding, I strode across the room.

Johnny gasped when he saw me. I drew him into my arms, and his little body trembled with relief.

I turned to the mother and said, “I’ll take this to the state if you ever force my child to eat again.”

She appeared in disbelief. “It’s our policy; kids must eat what’s served.”

“Policy?” I said it again, raising my voice. “It is not a policy to force-feed children till they cry. Abuse is what it is.”

She parted her lips as though she wanted to continue, but I cut her off.

I’ve always thought that children are aware of when they’re full, so I was furious. The last straw was witnessing someone disregard it and shove food on him till he started crying.

I looked at the astonished daycare workers. “Who is she?” “Where is her badge?”

No one responded.

I grabbed Johnny and left.

I sat on the edge of his bed that night after the wash and bedtime tales.

“Honey,” I calmly responded, “why don’t you want to eat at daycare?”

“The woman says I’m bad if I don’t finish,” he muttered as he cuddled up under his covers. She tells the children that I’m throwing away food. Everyone chuckles.

The last part of his voice shattered.

It was as if someone had punched me! The meal didn’t frighten him. He was terrified of being made fun of! His mealtimes had become a punishment because of that woman.

I had called in to work by Monday morning, explaining that I needed to work from home because my son was staying at home with me. I then gave Brenda, the childcare director, a call.

She reacted abruptly, as if astonished, when I described what I had observed. “We don’t force children to eat,” she stated.

“She picked up his spoon and shoved it into his face,” I replied. “He was crying.”

Brenda said, “That doesn’t sound like any of my staff,” and then she became silent.

I described the woman: glasses on a chain, floral blouse, gray bun.

A long pause ensued.

She said, “That might be… Miss Claire,” with caution. “She’s not formally staff.” She volunteers.

I tightened my hold on the phone. “A volunteer? Do you have volunteers working with kids without supervision?”

“She’s my aunt,” Brenda said candidly. “She’s retired and helps out sometimes.”

“Was she background-checked?” I insisted. Does she have childcare training? while she was reprimanding my son.

“She’s always been good with the kids,” Brenda said defensively in a whisper. “She just has an old-fashioned way —”

I interrupted her. “No. No more justifications. She shouldn’t have kids by herself! I would want to see your volunteer policy. Additionally, I need formal assurance that she will never again be close to my son.”

Brenda remained silent. Her breathing was audible over the phone.

I had trouble sleeping that night. I couldn’t stop picturing Johnny’s terrified face and crying eyes, as well as hearing the little voice say, “No lunch.”

I was unable to let it go. I submitted a report to the state licensing board the next day.

They assured me that I wasn’t the first. Other complaints had been made. Nothing had prompted an inspection, despite minor issues like children being left in dirty clothes, staff turnover, and missed naps.

So far.

They took notice of my allegation about an unscreened volunteer reprimanding kids.

They arrived in a matter of days.

The results exceeded my expectations!

On a regular basis, the childcare was full. A number of employees were not properly certified. Miss Claire and other volunteers were unsupervised and prohibited by law from interacting with minors. Indeed, several kids acknowledged that they had been “made to finish” their food even though they were full or felt ill!

Johnny wasn’t the only one. He had never been alone.

The state warned: make all the necessary corrections right away or risk closure.

An enraged Brenda called me.

“Why would you go to the state instead of talking to me?” she asked.

Calmly, “I did talk to you,” I said. “You protected her.”

After then, there was nothing else to say.

The twist that still makes me gasp is right here.

Another daycare parent, Lila, and I met up at the grocery store a week later. Sophie, her daughter, attended Johnny’s class.

Near the bread aisle, she drew me aside and said, “Thank you.”

I blinked. “For what?”

“My daughter always cried at lunch too,” she remarked quietly. “I believed she was being finicky. She told me, however, that Miss Claire used to reprimand her after the inspection. claimed that if she didn’t eat everything, she was unappreciative.”

Lila’s tone faltered. “I feel terrible. She should quit being choosy, I told her often. She was afraid, though.”

My hand touched her arm. “You didn’t know.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “But your son, he gave mine the courage to speak up.”

I had a different perspective on Johnny that evening. He had done more than save himself. He had begun something that also safeguarded others with that one little whisper.

The daycare lost its license since it was unable to meet the requirements. While some family scrambled in panic, most were relieved. We all had a right to better.

I found Johnny a new daycare. One with open communication and qualified educators. One that was considerate of others’ limits. He now greets the building with open arms and a beaming smile every morning!

The employees there paid attention. They ask questions and address each child by name. They maintain open lines of communication with parents and have a flexible lunch policy. “You eat as much or as little as your tummy wants, okay?” one of the teachers asked, squatting down to Johnny’s level on his first day.

He smiled, really!

Then he held his head high as he walked to his new school.

Now, there is excitement in every morning again. Even though I constantly reminding him that he can only bring one toy, he wakes up joyfully once again, packing his toys and singing songs.

I was reminded of how rapidly children can recover when they feel protected by seeing him enter that new classroom with assurance and without concern.

And me?

The most significant lesson of my life has been learned.

Listen to your child at all times. even if the adults dismiss it, the complaint is minor, and it seems ridiculous.

Because sometimes the only warning you’ll receive is that little voice.

I can still hear Johnny’s words.

“No lunch, Mommy.”

They were easy. However, they brought about a complete transformation.