People with a permanent limp, what happened?
Initial Discovery and Failed Report
My neighbor’s mom framed me as an abuser when I was the only one helping her son. So, I walked away and never looked back. A year later, she was forced out of town and was now trying to drag me down with her.
I was 18 when I started hating my little brother because that was the year he was born. Up until this point, me and my mom had been living in the same 375 ft house with my stepdad and older brother Derek.
My mom spent what few dollars of disposable income we had on hookas and Corona bottles. We were so broke that I couldn’t even remember the last time I was able to use real toothpaste that hadn’t been watered down.
But the more I took care of my newborn baby brother, Juan, the more I realized something. It was actually not that bad.
Don’t get me wrong. He spent every night crying until there was no water left in his body, and his poops were practically triple his size. But he was so freaking cute.
His big brown eyes had permanent stars that glowed, and putting on his tiny socks always made me tear up.
So, when he was 2 months old, I decided to open an at-home daycare. Nothing crazy professional. I just knew there were a bunch of moms in the neighborhood who were too busy to take care of their children all the time.
I started small, charging just $15 a day with a limit of four kids under 10. My older brother Derek never went to college, so he helped me out and took 20% of the money.
By the end of the week, I was holding more cash than I’d ever seen before. We were star-struck, so much so that we started hosting our daycare at our neighbor’s house.
Two bathrooms, three floors, very spacious. Plus, she only charged 10% of our earnings for her venue.
“If it’s to help the moms, then I’m all for it,” she said.
We were up to eight kids when the problems came, or more accurately, the problem singular. It wasn’t even the child, it was the parents.
Their son was three, blue eyes, brown hair, very energetic, the type to push the chair from the kitchen to the living room and back for no reason.
Whenever his mom handed Matteo over to me, she would do it with her arms fully extended while her face was so contorted. You could have sworn she was biting down on a lemon.
And as I took him into my arms, she’d practically sprint over to the sink and scrub her hands until I swear I could see red. I could never understand why, though.
He was actually one of the easier children to deal with. Always listened to me, never wet himself because he was too lazy to go to the bathroom, very smiley.
But on his third day with us, I noticed something. As he yawned, I saw his gums were extremely enlarged. So much so that they made his teeth look tiny.
I didn’t know much about kids at that point, so I simply joked about when was the last time he brushed his teeth.
“Brush?” He laughed so hard that he almost fell over.
“Mommy says it don’t matter. She don’t love me,” he smiled when he said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world instead of extremely heartbreaking.
I instinctively went to stroke his hair, completely unsure of what to say. And when I took my hand back out to check the time on my iPhone, I noticed my fingers were covered in a thick, oily kind of liquid.
So, I took a closer look and noticed his hair was extremely greasy. There was so much of it that it could have been enough to supply the Burger King cooking oil for the whole week.
My eyes widened in shock at the realization that Matteo’s mom was probably barely cleaning him. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to bathe him because I didn’t have a license and I’m a guy, so well, you know.
But I did grab a spare toothbrush and brushed his teeth. After just 10 seconds, red started coming out and that’s when my worst fears were confirmed.
But I needed crystal clear evidence before taking action. So, I hid a pea-sized amount of baby powder near his scalp. The next day, it was still there.
And by the end of the week, Matteo’s hair smelled so bad that I could barely even pull him onto my lap without gagging. Not to mention his tongue that was covered in a thick layer of yellow crust.
As I stared into his big innocent eyes, so filled with love and potential, I knew I had to do it. I pulled out my iPhone and dialed for CPS.
“There is a child that I’m in contact with that is being completely neglected by his mother,” I said, my tone sharp.
“Oh, okay. So, how many injuries or cuts can you see on him?” the social worker asked, as if Matteo was a statistic rather than a real child.
“This isn’t violence, it’s neglect. The mother isn’t bathing him or brushing his teeth,” I replied.
“Wait,” the social worker stopped me before laughing like a pig.
“So, the mom simply doesn’t have a nighttime routine for her kid, so you’re calling CPS?”
My heart dropped and before I could even respond, she hung up. That’s when I knew it was on me to take matters into my own hands.
So later that day, before his mom came to pick him up, I told my big brother. He thought I was exaggerating until I showed him Matteo.
Derek’s face scrunched up as soon as he caught a whiff and his eyes instantly had this far away look like he was thinking about what to do.
“Right,” he said, his tone dripping with stern confidence.
“Leave it to me. Just trust me.”
I nodded and handed Matteo over.
