I’d always known my son Ben had a heart bigger than the world deserved.
He was twelve—long limbs, scraped knees, and that unshakable optimism kids carry before life tries to chip it away. He believed effort was always met with fairness, that adults meant what they said, that the world kept its promises if you did your part.
I wish that belief were always true.
It started on a snowy December morning. I was flipping eggs when Ben burst into the kitchen, cheeks pink, hair damp from melted snow.
“Mom!” he panted, eyes bright. “Mr. Dickinson said he’ll pay me ten dollars every time I shovel his driveway!”
Our neighbor, wealthy and loud, loved to brag about deals and collections, the type who treats business like a sport. But Ben’s excitement was infectious.
“That’s great, sweetheart,” I said. “What will you do with the money?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “I’m buying you a scarf, and Annie’s getting that dollhouse with lights.”
His eyes sparkled with the seriousness of a banker announcing an investment strategy. And of course, he’d save the rest for a telescope.
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