I was never the go-to babysitter, not because I lacked the desire, but because my daughter Mira always said I wasn’t exactly “modern parent material.” I didn’t argue. Car seats were like puzzles designed by sadists. Baby bottles had newfangled venting systems. Diaper bags looked like military-grade backpacks with secret compartments. Everything about child-rearing nowadays felt like I needed an instruction manual just to hold the baby right.

Still, when Mira called that morning—voice taut with stress—I didn’t hesitate. “Dad, I know this is last minute, but can you watch Ellie? The sitter bailed, daycare isn’t picking up, and I’ve got this interview in twenty minutes.”

“Drop her off,” I told her. “We’ll figure it out.”

She pulled into my driveway six minutes later, gave me a five-second crash course on everything from naps to snacks, and handed me my granddaughter like a ticking bomb. Before I could ask where the diapers were, she kissed Ellie’s forehead, thanked me over her shoulder, and drove off.

I stared down at the pudgy-cheeked little being blinking up at me. “Well,” I said. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo.”