She was holding a kitchen timer.
“We can call your mother when youve calmed down,” she said.
My grandson looked past her and saw me.
“Can I come out now?”
“Yes,” I said. “Come here.”
The sitter stood up. She explained that the corner was his quiet place, somewhere he stayed until he could stop crying.
“Sometimes it takes him a while.”
I looked at the timer, then at his little shoes pressed together against the wall.
“He does not have to earn a phone call.”
I took him home and told my daughter exactly what I had seen. There would be no more evenings there.
For a while, he asked permission for everything, even leaving the couch to get water. We answered patiently and arranged support for the difficulties that continued.
One evening, he knocked over a cup in my kitchen.
His whole body stiffened.
I handed him a towel and took another for myself.
He watched me wipe the floor.
“Thats it?” he asked.
“Thats it. We spilled something.”
A minute later, he asked if we could still make pancakes.
We could.