But I saw the man who fixed my first car for free and helped my mom after my dad died. He’d lived near my family for most of my life.

I trusted him.

My husband, Ryan, did not.

The problem began when my work schedule changed.

Our daughter, Emma, was seven and finished school at three.

I used to leave early enough to pick her up, then complete my work from home. After transferring departments, that was no longer possible.

Ryan worked across town and rarely got home before six.

For two weeks, we survived on after-school care, favors from other parents, and what little patience I had left.fel

One night, Ryan said, “Maybe Melissa can handle it?”

I stared at him. He stared back.

Then we both said, “No.”

Emma adored Ryan’s sister, Melissa.

Unfortunately, Melissa could be forty minutes late because she’d stopped for coffee while already running late.

There was also the babysitting incident.

Melissa had let Emma watch IT because, according to Melissa, Emma had promised she “wouldn’t get scared.”

Emma slept between Ryan and me for four nights and still deeply distrusted balloons.

So we kept searching.

Then one afternoon, Travis found me beside my car in the driveway, complaining to my mother on the phone about after-school care.

After I hung up, he leaned against his fence.

“What time does Emma get out?”

“Three.”

“My rehearsal finishes at two-thirty on Tuesdays through Fridays. Place is two blocks from her school. I can walk her home.”