I don’t like you. Go away!
His voice was sharp, his little face set in a firm expression. No hesitation. No shyness. Just rejection—clear and direct.
I had only been at the childcare center for about an hour. I sat quietly in the background. I observed one of my students as she worked with a small group of children. My role was to assess her teaching skills, her ability to connect with children, and how she facilitated play-based learning. But at that moment, none of that mattered.
What mattered was the little boy sitting across from me, arms crossed, eyes wary.
I had noticed him earlier, on the edges of play, hovering but not quite joining in. He wasn’t disruptive. He wasn’t withdrawn. He was… apart.
I hadn’t planned to approach him, but something about his quiet distance pulled me in. I sat down on the floor near him. I picked up a few plastic dinosaurs and started playing. I gave them voices and made them interact. No expectations. No pressure. Just an open invitation.
And that’s when he looked straight at me and said, “I don’t like you. Go away.”
I paused for a second, letting his words settle. I wasn’t hurt—I knew this wasn’t about me. I had seen this before. Children who had been through something difficult, something that made them build walls instead of bridges.
So I didn’t push.
I didn’t tell him to be nice.
I didn’t walk away, either.
I simply nodded and said, “Oh, I’m sorry you feel that way. I hope we can be friends. It’s safe to play with me.” And then I kept playing with the dinosaurs, letting them stomp, roar, and chatter.
He didn’t respond. Not at first. But he stayed. He watched. And little by little, his posture shifted. His arms relaxed. His eyes lingered longer on the dinosaurs. And eventually—without a word—he picked one up and joined in.
For the rest of my visit, he was there. Near me, watching, following. My student was leading a small group activity. I focused on observing her. I could feel his presence beside me. His quiet attachment grew stronger by the minute.
And then, as my visit came to an end, something unexpected happened.
As I stood up to leave, his small hands grabbed the fabric of my skirt, clinging tightly.
“Don’t go.”
His voice, so firm before, now had an edge of desperation. The educator gently tried to coax him away, reassuring him that I had to leave. But he wouldn’t let go. His little fingers tightened, and for a brief moment, I felt a lump rise in my throat.
What do you say to a child who has learned that people leave?
I knelt down to his level, met his eyes, and said, “We will see each other again. And the people who love you? They will always be here for you.”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there as I walked to my car, his tiny figure framed by the doorway, watching, waving! The educators waved. He did not.
And as I drove away, I felt the tears come.
Because sometimes, the hardest part of working with children isn’t the teaching, or the planning.
Sometimes, it’s leaving.
