A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

willingly. But other days he doesn’t want to go to the sitter’s house.
He wants to stay with me.
“Mommy has to work,” I say soothingly. I peel his arms from my
leg and gently shove him into Charlotte’s open arms. It feels awful to
do this, to push my crying child away. In Charlotte’s arms, his crying
intensifies. My heart aches. Leo tries squirming away, coming back
to me. There’s a hitch to my voice. I choke back my own tears as I
say, “You’ll have fun. You’ll play with the other kids. Before you know
it, Daddy will be here to pick you up, and then you’ll be having so
much fun you won’t want to come home.”
It’s only lately that Leo has had stranger anxiety. Of course
Charlotte is not a stranger. He’s known her for months. She’s far
from a stranger. But these days Leo only wants to be with Josh or
me. We talked to the pediatrician about it. She said to give it time,
that, like most things in our kids’ lives, it’s a passing phase.
“He’ll be fine,” Charlotte says. “He always is after you leave.”
It’s the same thing that the pediatrician said. Saying goodbye is
the hardest part. I take comfort in that as I stand alone on her front
porch, watching as Charlotte carries my crying child away and closes
the door. From the other side, I hear him wail.
Delilah and Leo have been coming to Charlotte’s house since
Delilah started kindergarten this year. Before that, they attended a
different day care. I didn’t love it. It had a clinical feel, nothing homey
like this. Things got complicated, too, when Delilah started school.
Then I needed a sitter who could pick her up at the end of the day,
who could keep an eye on her until Josh came home. The school
didn’t provide a bus. Charlotte was that sitter, parading there with all
the kids to pick them up, pulling the little ones in the red wagon. Until
recently, the kids have been happy with her. I think of what the
pediatrician said: a passing phase. This, too, shall pass.
I turn my back to Charlotte’s house. My next stop is Shelby’s. I
need to see with my own eyes if she’s okay after her texts last night.
I drive to Shelby’s home. I leave my car on the street, behind a red
sedan that’s parked on the curb. I step out. I make my way to the
front door and quietly knock.
Shelby peels the door slowly back. She’s still in her pajamas, from
what I can tell, though the door blocks most of her body. I examine