I looked into the living room where my five-year-old daughter Mia was humming to herself, building a tower with blocks. Noah clumsily waddled over to her and squealed with delight when she let him knock it down.
They were good kids—kind, playful, never destructive or rude. So why did every sitter bolt within 48 hours?
The front door creaked open. My best friend Natalie stepped inside, a tray of lattes in hand. I barely managed a weak smile as she handed me mine.
“Bad timing?” she asked.
“Perfect timing,” I sighed, slumping into a chair.
She raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”
I handed her my phone. She read Bella’s message and let out a soft whistle. “That’s the fourth one, right?”
