She Trusted the Wrong Savior, So I Became the One She Lost

Caroline's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. Her chest heaved.

I plucked the ten-dollar bill from my shirt and stuffed it back into her bag.

"Mrs. Barber." My tone left no room for negotiation. "Jonathan is a healthy child. Walking into the classroom on his own is good exercise. Furthermore, this is an educational institution, not your personal fiefdom or a wet-nurse station."

I straightened my spine.

"My breast milk is for my daughter. I have zero obligation to feed your son."

Caroline looked like she'd been slapped. Humiliation morphed into rage so fast I could practically see the transformation.

"Letting my son drink your milk is an *honor*!" she shrieked. "Don't be shameless! Even your principal, Bonnie Randolph, has to bow and scrape based on my mood. Who do you think you are? My husband is—"

She stopped abruptly.

Gritted her teeth.

Her eyes narrowed into venomous slits. "Even if you don't agree, you *will* agree. Otherwise, I'll make sure you never work in this town again."

Principal Bonnie rushed over, already in damage-control mode. She tugged frantically at my sleeve, whispering, "Ms. Henson, please, just endure it. The school can't afford to offend her..."

Bonnie bowed and bent, apologizing profusely until Caroline's anger finally simmered down enough for her to leave.

During class, Caroline called my phone every ten minutes.

I silenced it immediately.

When I didn't answer, she tagged me incessantly in the parents' group chat, demanding to know why I was ignoring her and whether I had fed Jonathan yet.

I waited until the final activity period to reply with a single, dry message:

*In class. Cannot feed due to regurgitation issues. Is there anything else?*

Then, to shut her up, I sent thirty photos of Jonathan—from every conceivable angle—showing him uninjured and laughing happily.

There's a saying: *You don't hit a smiling face.*

Clearly, that saying didn't apply to Caroline James.

Seconds later, a call came through. I picked up.

"Ms. Henson, what is this attitude?" she screeched. "I just asked you to feed him some milk, and you're making excuses about regurgitation? You have no sense of responsibility. What kind of teacher are you?"

She paused for a breath, then continued. "It's already ten o'clock. Why haven't you sent me a photo of Jonathan's stool?"

My jaw dropped. "Huh?"

She actually had a hobby like *that*?

"What are you 'huh'-ing for? I monitor his health through his bowel movements. Do you understand?"

As fate would have it, Jonathan needed the toilet right then. I told her to wait, snapped a photo of the result, and sent it to her.

That finally bought me an hour of silence.

I thought I could catch my breath.

I was wrong.

Chaos struck at lunchtime.

While I was tending to another child, Jonathan shoved little Delia Vargas. She fell, her forehead cracking against the floor. A nasty bump swelled immediately.

I pulled Jonathan aside and told him to apologize.

He lifted his chin defiantly. "I'm not wrong! My mom said you're all cheap trash. I can hit whoever I want!"

I tried to reason with him. He was deaf to logic.

I had no choice but to explain the situation in the group chat and address Jonathan's behavior later. I apologized to Delia's mom, admitting my supervision had lapsed, and tagged Caroline.

Surely she would guide her son to admit his mistake.

Instead, her reply came cold and dismissive:

*Why should I apologize? Kids roughhouse. Is it necessary to make such a big deal out of it? If you ask me, that cheap little girl Delia probably provoked my Jonathan. Why else would he hit her?*

My head throbbed. Her logic was so twisted it could turn black into white.

The group chat remained deathly quiet. No one dared to step in.

A few minutes later, Delia's mom messaged me privately, her tone defeated.

*Ms. Henson, forget it. I won't pursue it. Caroline James is unreasonable. If I argue with her, Delia and I will probably end up having to apologize to her.*

Throughout the afternoon, several other parents privately messaged me with the same request:

*Please keep my child far away from Jonathan Barber.*