When I was a little girl, my mother taught me how to use a code word if I was in trouble and couldn’t speak up.
As an adult, I decided to impart this brilliant method to my baby girl. I figured she could use it to get out of sleepovers or if she had awkward hangouts.
But I never imagined her needing to use it so soon.
So yesterday was like any other day or so I thought. As I sat in my kitchen, finishing my evening coffee, my phone rang. It was my ex-husband, Dave.
Our relationship, once filled with warmth and affection, had grown strained over the years.
Divorce had a way of doing that, and while we tried to maintain a civil relationship for the sake of our daughter, Amy, things were often tense. “Hey, Claire,” Dave’s voice came through, slightly hesitant. “Amy wants to talk to you. She’s been asking to tell you about her day since she got here.”
This caught me off guard. Amy usually enjoyed her sleepover weekends with her dad and rarely called me during those visits. “Oh, sure, put her on,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
The fact that Dave sounded a bit off only added to the unease that was beginning to settle in my stomach.
“Hi, Mom!” Amy’s voice was as cheerful as ever, but there was something in the way she spoke that I couldn’t quite place. This was unusual for her, so I perked up and listened intently.
“Hey, sweetie! How’s your weekend going? Have you been having fun?” I asked, hoping to keep the conversation light.
“Yeah, it’s been good. We went to the park yesterday, and I drew some pictures this morning. I drew a dog, a tree, and… I wish I had a blue marker so I could draw blueberries.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks! There it was: our code word. My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. Among her childish chatter, Amy had dropped in our “password.”
When my daughter was younger, I taught her the importance of having a secret word. It was something she could use if she ever felt unsafe but couldn’t voice it outright.
“Blueberries” was our word, but I never imagined she would use it.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stay calm because the word meant “get me out of here immediately.” “That sounds great, honey. I’m on my way to come get you. Please don’t say anything to your father. I’ll talk to him when I get there.”
“Did you have anything else you wanted to tell me?”
“No, that’s it,” she replied, her tone still sweet but carrying an undertone of something else; fear? Uncertainty? I couldn’t be sure, but I knew one thing: I had to get her out of there.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?” I said as nonchalantly as possible.
“Okay, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you too, my Amy Wamy.”
I heard her giggle as I hung up the phone, my hands trembling. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what could have happened. Dave had never given me any reason to doubt his ability to care for our daughter, but something was wrong.
I grabbed my keys, my mind made up. I had to go to my ex’s place and get Amy.
When I finally arrived, I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. To my surprise, …Amy opened it.
That wasn’t the surprise.
The surprise was who stood behind her—not Dave.
A woman, maybe in her late 20s, wearing a hoodie and clutching a takeout bag, stared back at me. She looked just as shocked to see me. Amy’s eyes widened the moment she saw me, like she wasn’t expecting I’d get there so quickly.
“Mom?” she whispered.
I crouched down instantly and took her hands in mine. “Are you okay?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. But… I didn’t know how else to tell you.”
That was all I needed.
I gently stood, putting myself between Amy and the woman. “Where’s Dave?”
The woman blinked, then straightened up. “He… he went to get more food. I’m just… watching Amy until he gets back.”
“Funny, he didn’t mention anyone else being here,” I replied, my tone now clipped. “He also didn’t mention leaving our daughter alone with someone he clearly didn’t introduce to me.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m his girlfriend. It’s… new.”
Amy tugged on my sleeve. “She was yelling at Daddy earlier. Really loud. I didn’t like it.”
I turned to the woman, my eyes now sharp. “Get Dave on the phone. Now.”
She hesitated, then pulled her phone from her hoodie and handed it over. I stepped outside and hit call.
“Claire?” Dave’s voice came through after a few rings, casual and distracted.
“Dave, I’m at your house. Where are you?”
There was a pause. “I just stepped out. Amy okay?”
“No. She used our code word. Blueberries.” I could hear him breathing on the other end—suddenly heavier. “She felt unsafe, and she didn’t call 911. She called me.”
“I—Claire, it was just a disagreement. I didn’t mean for it to get loud. She’s not dangerous.”
“She’s a stranger to our daughter,” I snapped. “And you left Amy alone with her. You didn’t even tell me. You lost my trust, Dave. I’m taking Amy home. We’ll talk about visitation later—with a mediator.”
“Claire—”
I hung up.
Back inside, I scooped Amy into my arms, whispering, “You did so good, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
As we walked out, the woman stepped aside silently, not meeting my eyes.
Amy clung to me the whole way home.
And that night, after she finally drifted off to sleep, safe in her own bed, I sat in the dark and made a promise to myself: I would always believe her. Always listen. And I would never, ever doubt the power of a single word—blueberries—again.
