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.
