shoulders, usually dressed in black, and played bass in a local band.
If Travis approached you in a dark parking lot, you might cross the street.
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.
One night, Ryan said, “Maybe Melissa can handle it?”
I stared at him. He stared back.
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