The truck stopped near the curb.
The driver looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He had gray hair, a baseball cap, glasses, and the ordinary appearance of someone who had probably spent years driving around neighborhoods selling ice cream to children.
Ellie ran toward the window.
The man smiled immediately.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Then he looked past her.
And saw me.
His smile disappeared.
He stared at me.
Not dramatically.
Not like someone pretending to recognize a stranger.
He genuinely looked as though he were searching his memory.
I watched his face carefully.
Finally, he asked, “You’re Ellie’s mom?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he said my first name.
“Sarah?”
I hadn’t told him.
My stomach tightened.
“Do I know you?”
He gave a nervous little laugh.
“Probably not anymore.”
That answer bothered me more than anything else.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at Ellie.
Then back at me.
For a moment, he seemed unsure whether he should say anything at all.
Finally, he reached beneath the counter.
“I think you need to see something.”
He pulled out an old photograph.
It was faded and creased, the edges worn from years of being handled.
He handed it to me.
I looked down.
And my breath caught.
The little girl in the photograph was me.
I was about eight years old.
I was standing beside the same man who was now sitting inside the ice cream truck.
And in my hand was a strawberry shortcake bar.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Five words.
Words written in my late mother’s handwriting.
“Keep an eye on her.”
My hands began to tremble.
I looked at the man.
“Who are you?”
He took off his baseball cap.
“My name is Ben.”
Then he paused.
“I knew your brother.”
My heart seemed to stop.
“Adam?”
Ben nodded.
“Adam was my best friend.”
I hadn’t heard that name spoken by a stranger in years.
Adam was my older brother.
He had died in a car accident when I was nine.
For most of my childhood, I had learned not to talk about him.
My mother couldn’t bear it.
I couldn’t either.
So eventually, we stopped saying his name.
We stopped telling stories.
We stopped talking about the things he used to do.
