Mercy Edwins Official

My husband searched my phone and told the school I had been hurting our son Gideon held my phone out across the kitchen island in our Wellington flat and said, "'How long can a child go without eating before it's dangerous.' Marama, what is this?" I was rinsing a lunchbox. I turned off the tap. "Why are you in my phone?" "Yours was on the bench. It lit up and I saw it. There's more. 'Signs a child is being starved.' 'Can a mother be reported for this.' Is that what you've been doing to Tane?" "Gideon, give it back." "Not until you tell me why you're searching that." "It's not what you think." "I haven't said what I think." "You've said it with your face." "Then tell me why our six-year-old has lost weight and his mother is reading about starvation." "I can't explain it standing here." "Then sit and explain." "I was going to tell you this weekend." "Tell me what?" I dried my hands slowly. In the next room the television was on low, and I knew Tane could hear us. "Look at me," Gideon said. "Have you been withholding food from him?" "No. Never." "Then why does he look like that? You told me he was a picky eater." "He is." "Convenient." He took the phone with him to the bedroom and shut the door. I stood there with a wet lunchbox in my hand. That night he slept on the sofa. He didn't say goodnight to Tane, and he didn't say it to Aroha. Aroha is nine. She noticed. On Saturday morning I was making porridge. Gideon was on the deck on the phone to his sister, and the sliding door was open. "I've screenshotted everything," he said. "I'm going to the school on Monday. If she's doing this to him, I'll go to the police and then to Oranga Tamariki. I'm taking both kids to Mum's in Hamilton. I don't care what it costs." I turned around. Tane was standing in the doorway in his dinosaur pyjamas, holding his favourite spoon. He had heard every word. He didn't cry. He looked at the porridge, then at me. "Mum, did I do something wrong with my food?" "No, baby. Never." "Then why is Dad cross?" "He's frightened. He doesn't understand yet." He nodded slowly and put the spoon down on the bench. "Mum," he said, "if I eat the whole bowl, will Dad stop being cross with you?" I couldn't answer. I picked him up, though he's light as a bird, and he tucked his face into my neck and held on. Gideon's mother Pauline arrived on Sunday with a roast chicken and her handbag over her arm. She went straight to the pantry and looked at every shelf. "I told Gideon years ago," she said. "A mother who keeps a bare cupboard has a reason." "Pauline, please. Tane is in the next room." "Let him hear. He should know what kind of mother he has." "I've been feeding him exactly what the doctor said." "Then why is he thin?" "That's what I'm trying to find out." "A mother who knows doesn't have to find out." Aroha stood at the door with her drawing book. "Nana, Mum cooks him four different dinners and he eats two bites of each." "Go and play, darling." That evening Gideon's sister Sione posted in our suburb's Facebook group. "Praying for a little boy who deserves better. Some mothers need help, and some need to be held to account. No names." Ninety-six comments by morning. Six were from parents at Tane's school. On Monday his teacher, Mrs Hemi, asked to see me. The school had received a "concern" and was required to make a referral. At pickup a mother put her hand on my arm and said, softly, "Marama, there's support if you need it." A boy told Tane, "My mum says your mum doesn't feed you." Tane stopped taking his lunchbox out of his bag. I work as a speech-language therapist at a clinic in Lower Hutt. A colleague had seen the post. My manager asked, carefully, whether I wanted a few days. On Wednesday I took Gideon with me to the paediatric gastroenterologist, Dr. Pereira. He sat with his arms folded and screenshots on his phone.