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.”
We ended up at Taco Zone—not because I’m a fan of fast food at ten in the morning, but because it was quiet, warm, and had tables where I could sit without worrying about drool on my furniture. I wedged us into the corner booth, Ellie perched in my lap like a parrot. My coat pocket held a stolen jar of applesauce from my pantry and a plastic spoon I grabbed on the way out.
She squirmed at first. I bounced my knee, she whined. I gave her a crumpled napkin, and she began shredding it with the seriousness of a tax auditor. Then she spotted my flip phone—yes, I still use one, and no, I don’t care what anyone thinks.
Her tiny eyes lit up. I pressed a button and the screen glowed blue. She gasped. Like a real, dramatic baby gasp. I chuckled, and she leaned her head against my chest, utterly mesmerized by the most basic piece of technology on Earth. She gripped my jacket zipper like it was her lifeline. And for the first time in years, I felt needed in a way that wasn’t about fixing gutters or driving someone to the airport.
Then the door swung open with a dramatic jingle of bells.
A woman stormed in—early thirties, business casual in a way that suggested she’d recently lost a battle with traffic and deadlines. She scanned the room like she was on a mission. Her eyes landed on us, and her brows knit together.
She didn’t hesitate. She stomped over, jabbing a finger in our direction.
“Is this your child?” she demanded. Loud. Too loud. “Does anyone here know this man?”
I froze. Ellie looked up, startled. Her lip trembled.
The woman stepped closer, phone in hand like it was a badge. “He doesn’t even have a diaper bag! She’s falling asleep on him like he’s got chloroform or something!”
“I—she’s my granddaughter,” I said, rising halfway from the booth. “Her mother had an emergency, and I—”
“She’s not even crying. That’s suspicious!”
My voice caught in my throat. Ellie was now fully awake, confusion blooming across her face as the woman raised her phone like she was ready to livestream a takedown.
That’s when a voice from behind the counter cut through the chaos.
“Are you serious right now?”
It was Andrea. I hadn’t recognized her at first—her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was wearing the Taco Zone uniform, and she was elbow-deep in a vat of guacamole—but there was no mistaking her voice. She lived three doors down from me, had seen me walking Ellie up and down the block countless times. She used to borrow my ladder every spring.
The woman turned to her. “Excuse me?”
“That’s Mr. Hollen,” Andrea said, walking out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. “That’s his granddaughter. I see them together all the time.”
“I was just trying to be cautious,” the woman said, now slightly less confident. “Better safe than sorry.”
Andrea folded her arms. “You caused a scene. You scared the baby. Maybe next time, try asking a question before dialing 911.”
The woman flushed. “I—I was trying to help.”
Ellie whimpered, burying her face in my chest.
“You didn’t help,” Andrea said. “You assumed. Loudly. In front of a child.”
The woman let out a huff, muttered something about “crazy world,” and stomped out, the door slamming behind her like punctuation.
I sat back down, heart still racing. Ellie gave a little hiccup and then, inexplicably, giggled. The tension drained from my body like air from a balloon.
Andrea came over, crouched by the booth.
“She okay?” she asked, gently stroking Ellie’s back.
I nodded. “She’s tougher than I am.”
Andrea smiled. “You did good, Mr. Hollen.”
I laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. “I didn’t even bring the diaper bag.”
“She didn’t need one,” Andrea said. “She needed you.”
After a few more minutes, Ellie was dozing again, this time with her cheek squished against my chest, completely unaware of the drama that had just unfolded.
I stayed there for a while, sipping a lukewarm coffee Andrea brought me on the house. I watched cars pass outside, my arm curled around a tiny human who had complete trust in me. It struck me then—I had been so worried about getting everything right that I forgot the most important thing: showing up.
When Mira came to pick up Ellie an hour later, I told her everything. She went pale, then flushed with fury, then laughed when I mentioned Andrea calling the woman out. She pulled me into a hug, tighter than usual.
“Thank you, Dad,” she said.
I looked at Ellie, still snoozing in her car seat now. “She’s a good kid. You’re doing a great job.”
“So are you,” Mira said.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough to swell my chest with a quiet kind of pride I hadn’t felt in years.
Later that evening, I found a gift bag on my porch—inside was a brand-new diaper bag with a note from Mira: ‘Just in case. You’ve earned it.’
I smiled, shaking my head. Maybe I wasn’t so old school after all.
And the next morning, I found myself wondering: when could I babysit again?
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