For nearly two weeks, my nine-year-old daughter, Ellie, kept coming home with free ice cream.
At first, I thought it was sweet.
By the fourth time, I knew something was wrong.
We lived in an ordinary suburban neighborhood where an ice cream truck came through a few evenings a week during the summer. The moment Ellie heard that familiar cheerful melody drifting down the street, she would run toward the front door.
“Mom, can I have three dollars?”
Usually, I gave it to her.
But that summer, she had already spent her allowance.
So when I heard the truck one afternoon and saw Ellie rushing outside, I called after her.
“You don’t have any money, remember?”
She slipped on her sandals without turning around.
“I don’t need any.”
I frowned.
“Why not?”
“The man gives me one.”
A few minutes later, Ellie came back holding a strawberry shortcake bar.
I stared at it.
“Where did you get that?”
“The ice cream man gave it to me.”
I shrugged.
It didn’t seem like a big deal.
There were always several neighborhood children gathered around the truck. Maybe he had extra stock. Maybe he was simply being generous. Maybe he had decided to give one child a free treat.
