Starting that Fall, Meir walked every day from his daycare to Morah Penina’s house. The first day, I got permission to leave work at 2:50 p.m. so I could help Meir learn the ropes of his new walking routine.

We made a whole imagination game out of it. We pretended it was the next day and that he would be walking all by his very big self to Morah Penina’s house. We counted the houses as we walked. One, two, three! Here was Morah Penina’s house, where he spent all last year! Meir felt very big.

But did he really feel big, or I just hoped he was feeling big? The cobwebs of my memory don’t allow me to clearly remember.

The first few weeks, I checked in with Morah Penina and Meir’s morah a few times. “How’s Meir’s transition? Is it working out?”

Both wholeheartedly assured me that it was working out perfectly. Meir was walking, Morah Penina was opening the gate, and I would pick up both kids from Morah Penina at 3:22. Shalom al Yisrael.

Fast forward two years later. It’s 6:30 p.m. on Thursday, September 7, 2023. Meir’s two little sisters are asleep, so it’s Mommy-and-Meir time, when I give my now-five-year-old 30 minutes of undivided attention every night. We’re sitting on the sofa and he’s chatting excitedly about his first week in cheder.

Then we open a book to read together. There’s a picture of a skydiver, so I say, “It’s probably beautiful to see Hashem’s world from way above like a bird.”

Meir’s eyes are glowing. “Yeah, like a seagull or a plane! Did you ever do it, Ma?”

“No,” I laugh. “I would be too scared to skydive. But I’m almost sure Uncle Yisrael did it.”

“You would be scared?” he asks. His face begins to darken.

“It’s beautiful, but I wouldn’t be brave enough to do it,” I continue. “What are you scared of, Meir? Sometimes you tell me that you’re scared of being lost?”

Tears start welling up in his eyes.

“I’m so scared of being lost! When I had to walk to Morah Penina’s house, I would knock and knock on her gate, but no one would answer.”

Suddenly he is sobbing. Heart-wrenching, face-contorted sobs. “I was so scared. I would bang and bang and no one would answer. And there was a big dog on the way, and a cat, and I was so scared.”

My heart skips a beat. I remember there was a dog behind a glass storm door at the house next to his morah’s house, and the next house was a kindergarten morah, and then it was Morah Penina’s gate. I remember him telling me that he was afraid of the dog. I used to tell him, “Don’t worry, you’re so big. And the dog is behind the door.”

“So every day you were scared?” My heart is in my throat.

“Yes! Every day I was so scared. I would bang and bang and no one would answer.”

My heart freezes. “Meir, sometimes we remember things differently from the way they really happened. Like maybe we get scared one or two times, but then we think every single day was scary. Were you really scared every single day?”

Vehement nod.

“Yes! Every day I was so scared. One time, I even climbed through the hole under the gate because no one answered. Morah Penina’s Tatty was home. Why didn’t he open the gate? The only good day was Friday. I liked Fridays.”

Trying to conceal my emotions, I ask, “Why did you like Fridays?”

“Because then you or Tatty would pick me up and I didn’t have to be scared.”

“Why didn’t you tell your morah that you were scared?”

“I did! I told her that I’m so scared and she would always say, ‘You should go.’ But it’s so scary for a three-year-old to walk. And there’s a dog! And a cat! It’s not a good morah for anyone to go there. You shouldn’t send baby Chani to that morah! I liked being inside, but not going home.”

Tears are streaming down his face uncontrollably.

I wrap my arms around my son and hold him tight. When he eventually calms down, he tells me a scary story he heard at day camp. His morah had made a puppet show about a girl who got lost on a hike. “Chaveirim had to come find her,” Meir says. “I never want to go on a hike!”

He looks up at me. “Ma, you ever went on a hike?”

“Sure,” I say. “Hikes are fun. There are things we do to stay safe, like we stay in a group, we have partners, and there’s a line leader in the front and the back.”

I see the tension on his face, so I add, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to go on a hike when you’re five years old.”

He seems relieved.

How deep did this trauma go? Is my son going to miss out on life because of his fears?

I stay with Meir on the sofa for a while, long after his normal bedtime, talking and snuggling. But my mind is spinning: How did I miss all of this?

Later that night, I call both Morah Penina and Meir’s old morah. They barely remember the details, but they reaffirm what they had told me that year: He was walking nicely, the gate was being opened, he was handling it well.

I don’t hold them accountable, nor am I upset with them. They were just following the arrangement I had set up.

But as for me, I can’t sleep that night, nor the next. I am consumed with guilt.

I wish I hadn’t been blinded into thinking that he was so “big” and “independent” when he really wasn’t ready for it. Looking back, I thought he was ready, but now I’m not so sure. Was I just desperate for the whole day care pickup schedule to work out?

I wish I had taken his fears more seriously. If I had been more aware, maybe then I wouldn’t have been busy trying to figure out why Meir was stuttering at four years old? Or why he was an anxious kid in kindergarten who’d comment here and there, “I wish there would be no such thing as lost.” Maybe he would feel confident in a store, even when he’s in a different aisle from me, instead of calling out, “Ma?! Ma?!” as if he’s lost.

My husband and I speak at length about Meir. We keep asking ourselves, “What does Hashem want us to learn from this?” Second-guessing is not a Torah hashkafah so we’re trying to use the past as a way to refocus our future.

At the time, the choice seemed so correct. But I see now that I was blinded by keeping my job at all costs.

The past few nights, Meir’s been crying in his bed for a few minutes after being tucked in. He keeps saying, “I’m scared to be lost. I keep having a dream. It’s coming again and again.”

I feel just as tormented. Morah Penina’s words still ring in my mind: “Sure! Don’t lose your job over this. It’s my pleasure.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 863)