I dropped my son off like I always did—until his teacher pulled me aside and whispered, “Don’t leave yet.” My stomach sank when I heard my baby screaming from a locked room.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Lang barked. “Rebecca, stop.”

But Ms. Carter didn’t back down. Her voice was quiet, steady. “It’s been going on for weeks. They call it ‘reset time.’ Children are locked in until they stop crying.”

My vision burned.

Mrs. Lang shot her a warning glare. “You’re breaking policy.”

“No,” Ms. Carter replied. “I’m protecting kids.”

My hands shook, so I clenched them tight.

I faced the director again. “Pull the video.”

Mrs. Lang’s expression hardened, the mask finally gone.

“There are legal restrictions,” she said. “Parents aren’t allowed—”

“He’s my son,” I cut in. “I’m his legal guardian. If you refuse, I’ll subpoena the footage. If it disappears, that’s evidence tampering.”

The word evidence changed the air.

Her throat tightened.

She glanced toward the hallway—toward the caregiver who’d dismissed my child as “dramatic.”

Then she looked back at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please… don’t do this.”

I met her stare. “So it’s real.”