Recently, I took my son to a new daycare. It had been recommended to us as a “progressive” one — with discipline and good educators. From the very first day, I felt a strange sense of unease, but I tried to ignore it.

I didn’t like the caregiver right away. At our first meeting, she said sharply:

— “Boy! Here, children say hello when they arrive. They go to the room by themselves. No kisses for mommy. If you want to cry, do it during recess. Understood?”

I wanted to reply, “Do you always speak like that to four-year-olds?” but I stayed silent. I thought maybe she was just strict.

A few days passed. And my son changed. He stopped talking. He no longer sang his favorite songs. His drawings — once bright and sunny — became dark.

Every evening, he left daycare in silence. He didn’t run to me, didn’t complain, didn’t fuss. He just took my hand — and that was it.

So I decided to find out the truth. In the morning, while he was putting on his jacket, I carefully hid a voice recorder in the pocket of his snowsuit. That evening, once we were home, I took it out and hit play. What I heard horrified me.

At first, there were the usual sounds: children’s footsteps. Laughter. Someone singing. Then the caregiver’s voice:

— “I told you to sit down!”
— “Don’t look at me like that, idiot.”
— “Still mute? Do you think I’m going to coddle you like a mommy?”
(sound of a sharp slap on the table)
— “Why?!” — my son’s timid voice.
— “Because you’re not listening! One more tear, and you’re going to the corner.”

Then — a smack. That same chilling sound. A pause. Then a muffled sob. And my child’s whisper:
— “I want to go home…”

My hands were trembling. But I listened to the whole thing. The next morning, I was already at the police station. We went to the daycare with the officers.

When we entered the room, the caregiver tried to smile, but her eyes wavered when she saw the voice recorder in my hand and the uniformed officer by my side.

I never took my son back to that daycare.