Chapter 2 - THE SITTER WHO DIDN’T ANSWER
I drove Emma to the pediatrician before I drove home.
Mark wanted me to wait for him.
I refused.
Dr. Evelyn Hart examined Emma’s cheek, jaw, ears, and eyes.
The mark was superficial.
No fracture.
No head injury.
No neurological concern.
The words relieved me without making the slap acceptable.
Dr. Hart asked one question I was not prepared for.
“Has Diane ever struck Emma before?”
“I don’t know.”
It felt terrible to say.
A mother was supposed to know.
At least that was the accusation already forming inside me.
Dr. Hart did not reinforce it.
“Any unexplained bruising?”
“Toddlers always have bruises.”
“Think about location.”
I remembered one on Emma’s upper arm three weeks earlier.
Mark said she fell against Megan’s coffee table.
Another faint mark near her thigh in June.
A playground slide, he said.
A swollen lip in April.
She tripped with a cup.
All possible.
All reported through Mark.
Dr. Hart documented the slap and explained that as a mandated reporter, she would notify child protective services.
Mark arrived halfway through the appointment.
He entered looking frightened.
He went directly to Emma.
“Hey, bug.”
She turned her face into my shoulder.
Mark stopped.
That reaction hurt him visibly.
He did not force contact.
Good.
One correct choice did not solve the morning.
“Claire, can we talk outside?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“She stays with me.”
Dr. Hart offered a conference room after the exam.
We sat across from each other.
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
Mark rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“Mom has watched her sometimes.”
“How often?”
“Occasionally.”
“How often?”
“Maybe once a week.”
“Since when?”
He looked away.
“Spring.”
It was December.
“You said Megan had her.”
“Megan’s schedule changed.”
“So you lied.”
“I was trying to keep peace.”
“Whose?”
“Everyone’s.”
“My peace was built on false information.”
“You would never have agreed.”
“Correct.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
The sentence came out before he understood it.
I stared at him.
“Say that again.”
“Claire.”
“You didn’t tell me because I wouldn’t consent.”
“I knew you’d overreact because of Mom’s temper.”
“She slapped Emma today.”
“I know.”
“Then my concern was accurate.”
“She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Did you tell Diane not to call me when Emma cried?”
Mark’s eyes moved.
Small movement.
Enough.
“Did you?”
“No.”
I opened the saved clip.
Diane’s voice filled the room.
Your daddy said not to call her when you cry.
Mark listened.
“That could mean anything.”
“What does it mean?”
“Mom twists things.”
“Why would she invent an instruction that protects you?”
“I never told her to hide injuries.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He stood.
“I need air.”
“Sit down.”
He stared at me.
I rarely spoke to Mark that way.
For seven years, our fights had a pattern.
He avoided.
I pursued.
He asked for time.
I kept asking.
Eventually I apologized for pressure because I hated unresolved tension.
That afternoon, I did not apologize.
“Where is Megan?”
“At work.”
“She’s a sitter.”
“She has another job.”
“What job?”
“Claire—”
“What is her last name?”
“You know it.”
“I know what you told me. Megan Collins.”
“Yes.”
“Phone number?”
He recited it.
I called.
The number went directly to voicemail.
A woman’s recorded voice said:
“Hi, you’ve reached Megan. Leave a message.”
I had heard it before.
Birthday pickup questions.
Food allergies.
Holiday schedules.
I had texted that number dozens of times.
Usually Mark said Megan preferred texts because she was busy with children.
I sent:
This is Claire. Please call me urgently regarding Emma.
No reply.
Mark said:
“She may be working.”
“With which child?”
He did not answer.
That evening, a child protective investigator named Maya Chen came to our house.
I had already told Mark to stay with his brother.
He objected.
Then left when Maya explained that temporary separation would make the initial safety assessment cleaner.
Maya photographed Emma’s cheek.
She asked about Diane.
About Mark.
About childcare.
I gave her the video.
I also gave her every text thread with Megan.
Maya read several.
Megan:
Emma ate well today. No nap though. She missed Mommy.
Megan:
Small bruise from the coffee table. She cried for two minutes then was fine.
Megan:
Mark picked her up early ❤️
The heart emoji suddenly looked grotesque.
“Have you ever met this caregiver?” Maya asked.
“Once.”
“When?”
“Last year. Before we hired her.”
“What happened?”
“A twenty-minute interview at a café.”
“Did Emma ever enter her home while you were present?”
“No.”
“Do you know her address?”
I opened my contacts.
Mark had entered it.
Maya wrote it down.
The next morning, she called.
No Megan Collins lived there.
The address belonged to a dental laboratory.
I texted the sitter number again.
May you like
This time the message failed.
By noon, the number was disconnected.
