Parents Beware: I Found Out Too Late Who Was Really Watching My Son (2 of 3)

I asked questions. His teachers told me he was adjusting fine. “Once you leave, he calms down right away!” they’d say with that chipper, overly bright tone that always rang a little hollow to me. I wanted to believe them. I needed to believe them.

But then came the night Ben had an accident in his sleep—his first since potty training. When I asked him what had happened, he whispered: “Because the man in the red shirt said not to tell.”

There was no man in our house who wore a red shirt.

I barely slept. My husband thought I was overreacting. “It’s probably something he saw on TV,” he said, trying to be reassuring. But that pit in my stomach grew heavier by the day.

So I did what any desperate mother would do. I took a day off work, parked down the street from the daycare, and watched.

At first, it was quiet. Kids were coming in, laughing, dragging their little backpacks behind them. Then I saw Ben. His head was down. Shoulders slumped. No skipping. No smiles.

The teacher at the door—Ms. Dana—ushered him inside with a too-tight grip on his arm.

I moved closer.

The main classroom had a side window. The blinds were crooked—just enough to see through if you stood at the right angle. My heart was racing. I felt like I was spying. But I needed answers.

And then I saw it.