At 2:25 PM on a normal Friday, I got a call from my six-year-old son, Ben. His voice was a whisper:
“Mommy… I’m afraid.” He was supposed to be safe at home with our trusted babysitter, Ruby. But he said she’d “fallen down” and wouldn’t wake up. I left work immediately and raced home. When I arrived, Ben was hiding in the hallway closet, clutching his stuffed dinosaur.
He’d tried to help Ruby—brought her a pillow, spilled water, even used the ice pack I keep for bruises. But when she didn’t wake, he hid. Alone. Scared. I found Ruby on the living room floor, unconscious but breathing. Only then did I remember to call 911. The paramedics said she’d collapsed from dehydration and low blood sugar.