When my washing machine broke while babysitting my grandson, Tommy, I had to take our laundry to the local laundromat. Overwhelmed, I accepted help from a friendly older man who offered to hold Tommy.
As I turned to load the washer, a sudden chill ran down my spine. When I looked back, Tommy had a Tide pod in his mouth, and the man just stood there smiling. I screamed, snatching it away, terrified of what could have happened. The man brushed it off, calling me “crazy” when I confronted him.
Shaken and furious, I rushed Tommy home and called our doctor, who assured me to watch for symptoms. Thankfully, he seemed fine, but the “what ifs” haunted me.
I vowed never to let pride or misplaced trust endanger him again. By the time my daughter returned, Tommy was safe and happy — but I was a wreck.
The first thing I did after they left? Ordered a new washing machine, determined to keep my precious grandson safe, no matter the cost.
