Chapter 4 - The Business My Parents Needed Me to Ignore
Little Pines Learning House was not a massive company.
It served twenty-six children.
Preschool during the day.
After-school care until six.
Summer programs.
Bethany employed four people.
My parents owned the building.
I had always thought of Little Pines as Bethany’s success story.
She had struggled after college.
Marketing job.
Layoff.
Failed engagement.
Two years working for someone else’s daycare.
Then she started Little Pines.
Frank talked about it constantly.
“Your sister finally found what she’s good at.”
Linda volunteered there enough that the children called her Miss Linda.
What I did not know was how much money my parents had tied to it.
Frank had refinanced part of their house to renovate the Lisle property.
He and Linda had put in approximately $118,000.
They also personally guaranteed part of Bethany’s small-business loan.
I learned that from Frank himself.
He called me after the licensing inspector visited.
“Happy now?”
“About what?”
“They’re investigating the center.”
“I didn’t call them.”
“Your hospital did.”
“Then be angry at mandatory-reporting law.”
“Your sister has employees.”
“Rosie is four.”
“Nobody is saying what happened was right.”
“Bethany said it was a joke.”
“Because she panicked.”
“You threw a glass at me.”
Silence.
Frank moved on as if I hadn’t said it.
“If the center closes, your mother and I lose a fortune.”
There it was.
“So this is money.”
“This is family.”
“Why does family always become money when you explain it?”
He became furious.
“Because adults have responsibilities you don’t understand.”
I almost laughed.
I was a project manager for a commercial construction firm.
I had a mortgage.
Life insurance.
A preschooler.
A dead spouse.
Responsibilities were not unfamiliar.
“Did you know about the previous complaint?”
Frank stopped.
“Your mother told you.”
“So yes.”
“It was nothing.”
“What happened?”
“A child had marks after a rough afternoon.”
“From the clips?”
“Nobody proved that.”
The wording interested me.
Not no.
Nobody proved that.
“What did you tell licensing?”
“The truth.”
“Which was?”
“Bethany had already stopped using those things.”
My stomach tightened.
“Mom said she stopped after the complaint.”
Silence.
Two different timelines.
I heard it immediately.
“Dad.”
“Don’t start.”
“When did she stop using them?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You just said licensing knew she already stopped.”
“You’re twisting words.”
There was the family escape hatch.
I hung up.
The licensing investigator, Carla Mendoza, later explained only what she could appropriately discuss with me.
There had been a complaint eleven months earlier.
It had not resulted in a finding serious enough to close Little Pines.
Specific details remained protected.
“Can you tell me whether those round clips were mentioned?”
“Not from memory, and I wouldn’t want to misstate a record.”
Another responsible answer.
I was beginning to collect them.
Priya told me not to hunt for the other family.
“Let investigators do that.”
“But if there was another child—”
“Then that child’s family deserves privacy too.”
She was right.
My job was Rosie.
So I focused there.
I arranged therapy with a child psychologist, Dr. June Holloway.
I told her Rosie kept saying she had to be “brave.”
June asked me:
“What does bravery mean in your family?”
I almost said courage.
Then I thought about Frank.
Stop crying.
Don’t complain.
Handle it.
Family problems stay inside.
Emma used to joke that my father believed feelings were something invented by coastal universities.
“Bravery usually means not making Dad uncomfortable.”
June nodded.
“Then we may need to teach Rosie another definition.”
That evening Rosie dropped a cup of milk.
She froze.
Completely.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Rosie.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
Her breathing sped up.
I knelt.
“Nobody is mad.”
She looked toward the front door.
“Aunt Bethany says big kids don’t make messes.”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
The clips were not the whole problem.
They were simply the object that finally made me see how Bethany had been talking to my daughter when I wasn’t there.
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