I’m thirty-five. My husband, Jason, is thirty-seven. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven.

Jason has always been a devoted father. School events, bedtime stories, hair brushing, tea parties on the floor—he never needs to be asked. He shows up, every day.

So when “garage time” started, I tried not to overthink it.
The first afternoon Lizzie came home from school, Jason smiled and said,
“Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”