The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and fresh coffee that December morning, the kind of cozy warmth that makes you forget there’s a whole world of snow and ice waiting outside. I was flipping pancakes when I heard the front door burst open, followed by the familiar sound of boots stomping on the mat and my son’s excited voice calling out to me.
“Mom! Mom, you won’t believe what just happened!”
Ben came rushing into the kitchen, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his eyes sparkling with the kind of pure excitement that only a twelve-year-old can muster. Snow clung to his dark hair and the shoulders of his oversized winter coat, melting into little droplets that caught the morning light streaming through the window.
I turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him. My son had always been special, not in the way that every mother thinks their child is special, but in a way that made strangers stop and take notice. He had this earnestness about him, this genuine kindness that seemed almost old-fashioned in today’s world.
“What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?” I asked, sliding a pancake onto a plate.
He was practically bouncing on his toes, his words tumbling out in a rush.
“Mr. Dickinson—you know, the guy with the huge house next door—he said he’ll pay me ten dollars every single time I shovel his driveway! Can you believe it? Ten whole dollars!”
I felt my smile freeze for just a second. Gregory Dickinson was not my favorite person in the neighborhood, not by a long shot. The man was what my grandmother would have called “all hat and no cattle,” the kind of guy who made sure everyone knew about his money, his cars, his connections. He’d moved in about two years ago, and within a month, the whole street knew he was some kind of big shot in commercial real estate.
His house was the largest on the block, a sprawling modern monstrosity with more glass than walls, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread rather than our modest Midwestern suburb. He drove a different luxury car every few months, and his wife wore the kind of jewelry that made the other neighborhood ladies whisper behind their hands at block parties.
But Ben didn’t see any of that. All he saw was an opportunity.
“That’s wonderful, honey,” I said, pushing my reservations aside. Who was I to dampen his enthusiasm? Maybe Dickinson wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe this was his way of being neighborly.
“What are you planning to do with all that money?”
Ben pulled out a chair and sat down at our worn kitchen table, the one with the wobbly leg that my husband kept saying he’d fix. His expression turned serious, the way it always did when he was thinking about something important.
“I’ve got it all figured out, Mom. I’m going to buy you that red scarf you were looking at in the window at Peterson’s Department Store. The one with the little snowflakes embroidered on it. You said it was too expensive, but I saw how you looked at it.”
My throat tightened. I had looked at that scarf, just once, maybe six weeks ago when Ben and I had been walking downtown. I’d admired it for about thirty seconds before checking the price tag and quickly moving on. I hadn’t mentioned it again, hadn’t even thought about it much. But Ben had remembered.
“Ben, you don’t have to—”
“And I’m getting Annie a dollhouse,” he continued, warming to his subject. “The one from Hoffman’s Toy Emporium, with the working lights and the little furniture. She’s been talking about it nonstop since we saw it before Thanksgiving. Remember how she pressed her nose up against the window and made that squeaking sound?”
I remembered. Annie, his eight-year-old sister, had indeed been obsessed with that dollhouse. It was a beautiful thing, three stories tall with tiny rooms and miniature chandeliers that actually lit up. It cost more than I wanted to spend on a single toy, especially with Christmas presents for both kids, groceries, and the perpetually broken water heater that we’d been nursing along for another year.
“What about you?” I asked, setting his breakfast in front of him. “Don’t you want to save some for yourself?”
His face lit up again. “Well, yeah. After I get your scarf and Annie’s dollhouse, whatever’s left is going toward a telescope. Mr. Chen at school showed us pictures from the Hubble telescope, and Mom, you should see what’s out there. There are galaxies and nebulas and—”
He stopped, probably seeing the bemused expression on my face. “Anyway, I really want to look at the stars.”
I reached over and ruffled his hair, feeling that familiar swell of pride and love that sometimes made my chest ache.
“You’ve got it all planned out, huh?”
“Every penny,” he said with satisfaction, digging into his pancakes.
Over the next three weeks, Ben became a force of nature. Every morning, while the sky was still that deep blue-black of pre-dawn winter, I’d hear him moving around upstairs. By the time I made it to the kitchen to start coffee, he’d already be bundled up in his coat, his red knit hat pulled down over his ears, his oversized gloves making his hands look comically large.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he’d say, grabbing his shovel from the garage.
“Ben, honey, you don’t have to go so early—”
“I want to get it done before school, Mom. Mr. Dickinson said any time is fine, but I want to do a good job.”
And he did. Lord, that boy worked harder than some grown men I knew. From the kitchen window, while the coffee percolated and the house slowly warmed up, I’d watch him make his way up Dickinson’s long, curved driveway. The scrape of metal on pavement became the soundtrack to my mornings, a rhythmic sound that spoke of determination and hope.
Sometimes I’d bundle up and bring him hot chocolate halfway through. He’d take a break, his breath coming out in white clouds, his face red from exertion and cold. But he was always smiling.
“How’s it going?” I’d ask.
“Great! I’m getting faster every time. Today I beat my record by seven minutes.”
He kept a notebook, a spiral-bound thing with a blue cover that was getting more dog-eared by the day. Every evening after dinner, he’d sit at the kitchen table with a pencil, carefully recording the date and adding ten dollars to his running total.
“Forty dollars now,” he announced one night, showing me the page with its neat columns of numbers. “Only forty more and I can get both the scarf and the dollhouse. Then I just need to save up for the telescope.”
My husband, Mark, watched our son with a mixture of pride and something else—something I couldn’t quite name at the time. Later, I’d realize it was a father’s instinct, a wariness that something about this arrangement didn’t sit right.
“You talk to Dickinson about this?” Mark asked me one night after the kids were in bed.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, has Ben actually talked to him about when he’s getting paid? Is Dickinson keeping track?”
I frowned. “Ben sees him sometimes when he’s shoveling. I’m sure they’ve discussed it.”
“Maybe you should check,” Mark said, but I waved him off.
“Honey, the man’s a businessman. I’m sure he’s keeping track. Besides, Ben’s learning responsibility and the value of hard work. Isn’t that what matters?”
Mark didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop.
The neighborhood transformed as December deepened. Christmas lights appeared on houses, inflatable Santas and reindeer sprouted in yards, and the snow kept falling, that perfect dry powder that crunched under your boots and made everything look like a greeting card. Ben shoveled Dickinson’s driveway eight times in total, each time adding to his carefully maintained ledger.
Annie caught the excitement too. She’d corner Ben every few days, asking about the dollhouse with the kind of persistent hope that only a child can maintain.
“Is it time yet? Did you get enough money yet?”
“Not yet, Annie-bean, but soon. Real soon. Maybe by Christmas.”
Ben had even done extra chores around the house, earning a few more dollars here and there. I’d find him in the garage, organizing tools without being asked, or sweeping out the basement, or taking on Annie’s dish duty in exchange for her allowance. He was a boy on a mission, and it was beautiful to watch.
Then came December twenty-third.
I was in the kitchen, preparing for Christmas dinner two days away, when I heard the front door slam. Not open—slam. The kind of violent sound that makes your heart jump into your throat because you know something is wrong.
“Ben?” I called, wiping flour from my hands.
No answer.
I rushed to the entryway and found my son standing there with his boots half off, his coat still zipped, his gloves clutched in trembling hands. His face was blotchy and red, not from cold but from tears—tears that were streaming down his cheeks unchecked.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” I dropped to my knees in front of him, gripping his shoulders. “Are you hurt? Did something happen? Talk to me, baby.”
He tried to speak but couldn’t. His breath came in great, shuddering gasps, the kind of crying that takes over your whole body. I pulled him against me, feeling him shake, and my mind raced through terrible possibilities. An accident. A fall. Someone hurt him.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he managed to choke out words.
“He’s… he’s not… Mom, he said he’s not paying me.”
I pulled back, confused. “What? Who’s not paying you?”
“Mr. Dickinson.” Ben’s face crumpled again. “I went to ask him about the money because I wanted to go shopping tomorrow for the presents, and he… he laughed at me, Mom. He said he never agreed to pay me anything.”
The world seemed to tilt sideways. “What do you mean? He told you ten dollars each time.”
“He said—” Ben had to stop and wipe his nose on his sleeve. “He said it was a lesson. About business. That I should never accept a job without a written contract. He said he’s not paying me a single cent, and that I should thank him for teaching me something valuable.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what I was hearing. This man, this wealthy, smug, self-satisfied man, had watched my twelve-year-old son shovel his driveway eight times in the freezing cold, had let him believe he was earning money for Christmas presents, had allowed him to work until his hands were blistered and his back ached—all as some kind of twisted lesson?
The anger that rose in me was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. It was white-hot and blinding, a rage so pure it made my hands shake and my vision narrow to a pinpoint.
“Mom?” Ben’s small voice brought me back. “I worked so hard. I don’t understand. Why would he do this to me?”
I pulled him close again, pressing my cheek against his cold hat, breathing in the smell of snow and childhood and innocence that didn’t deserve this kind of cruelty.
“Listen to me, Ben. You did nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing. You worked hard, you kept your word, you did everything right. This is not on you. This is on him.” I pulled back and looked into his eyes. “You go upstairs and get warmed up. I’m going to handle this.”
“But Mom—”
“No buts. Go on now. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
After Ben trudged upstairs, I stood in the entryway for a long moment, letting the anger crystallize into something cold and sharp and purposeful. Then I grabbed my coat, yanked open the door, and marched across our yard toward Dickinson’s house.
The contrast between our homes had never been more apparent. Where our front porch held a simple wreath and a few strings of lights, Dickinson’s house was ablaze with thousands of tiny white lights, professionally installed, with spotlights illuminating the columns and evergreen garlands wrapped around every visible surface. Through the massive front windows, I could see people moving around—he was having a party, of course. Probably showing off to his rich friends.
I rang the doorbell, which played some elaborate chime, and waited. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted out into the cold night. Someone was singing, badly, to Christmas music playing in the background.
The door swung open, and there he was. Gregory Dickinson, in all his glory, wearing what was probably a thousand-dollar suit, a wine glass in his hand, his face flushed from alcohol and good cheer. He was in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair styled just so, and the kind of tan that spoke of recent tropical vacations.
“Mrs. Carter,” he said, his voice smooth and condescending. “This is unexpected. Did you come to join our little gathering?”
“You know exactly why I’m here.” I kept my voice level, but it took every ounce of self-control I possessed. “My son earned eighty dollars shoveling your driveway. You owe him that money.”
Dickinson actually laughed. Not a nervous laugh, but genuine amusement, as if I’d just told a joke.
“Oh, that. Yes, young Benjamin came by earlier. I explained the situation to him.”
“The situation?” I took a step closer. “You mean the situation where you exploited a child for free labor?”
He held up a hand, still smiling that infuriating smile. “Now, let’s not be dramatic. I did your son a favor. I taught him an important lesson about business. In the real world, nothing is binding without a contract. He should be thanking me for this education.”
“He’s twelve years old.”
“Old enough to learn how the world works.” Dickinson took a sip of his wine, completely unbothered. “No contract means no obligation. It’s that simple. If he wants to be successful someday, he needs to understand these principles.”
I stared at this man, this creature who stood in his palace of excess and saw nothing wrong with crushing a child’s dreams as a teaching moment, and I realized something important: arguing with him about morality, fairness, or basic human decency would be pointless. He didn’t care. He probably couldn’t even understand why I was upset.
So I changed tactics.
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Dickinson,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “The real world is all about accountability and consequences. I’m so glad we see eye to eye on that.”
He looked surprised but pleased. “Well, exactly. I knew you’d understand once you calmed down.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I turned and walked back across the lawn, my mind already racing ahead. Behind me, I heard Dickinson’s door close, heard the laughter resume. He probably thought he’d won, that he’d put me in my place and taught both me and Ben a valuable lesson about knowing our station in life.
He had no idea what was coming.
Mark was waiting when I got home, concern etched across his face. “How’d it go?”
“He refused to pay. Said it was a lesson about contracts.”
My husband’s jaw tightened. “That son of a—”
“I know. But I have a plan.” I was already pulling off my coat, my mind working through the details. “Where’s Ben?”
“In his room. He won’t come out. Dani, maybe we should just pay for the presents ourselves. We can tell Ben—”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “This isn’t about the money anymore. This is about showing our son that good people don’t just let bullies win. That there are consequences for cruelty. That his parents will go to war for him.”
Mark studied my face, then slowly nodded. “What do you need me to do?”
I spent the rest of the evening planning, researching, and preparing. I looked up local ordinances about snow removal, checked the weather forecast, and made a few phone calls to neighbors. By the time I went to bed, everything was in place.
I barely slept. My mind kept replaying Ben’s devastated face, kept imagining him working in the cold, believing he was earning money for gifts, dreaming about making his family happy. The injustice of it burned in my chest like hot coals.
At five in the morning, I got up. The house was still dark, silent except for the hum of the heater and the soft sound of Mark snoring. I made coffee, strong and black, and then went upstairs to wake my family.
“Mark. Ben. Annie. Time to get up.”
Mark groaned. “Dani, it’s five in the morning. What—”
“We have work to do. All of us.”
Ben emerged from his room, his eyes still red and puffy from crying. “Mom? What’s going on?”
I looked at my son, at his rumpled hair and defeated posture, and felt my resolve harden into steel.
“We’re going to fix this, sweetheart. All of us, together. Now get dressed in your warmest clothes. We’ve got a job to do.”
Twenty minutes later, we stood in our driveway as the first hints of dawn painted the eastern sky a deep purple. Our breath formed clouds in the freezing air. Ben clutched his shovel, confused but willing to trust me. Annie bounced on her toes in her puffy pink coat, excited for an adventure even if she didn’t understand what was happening.
Mark had pulled out the snowblower from the garage, a old beast that roared to life with a cloud of exhaust.
“Okay,” I said, gathering my troops around me. “Here’s the plan. Mr. Dickinson doesn’t value Ben’s work? Fine. He doesn’t want to pay for a service rendered? That’s his choice. But here’s what he doesn’t understand—if you don’t pay for someone’s labor, you don’t get to keep the benefits of that labor.”
Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re going to undo every single bit of work you did for him. We’re going to take all the snow from our driveway, from the sidewalks, from the street in front of our house, from Mrs. Patterson’s driveway next door—she already said yes—and we’re going to put it all right back in Mr. Dickinson’s driveway.”
Understanding dawned on Ben’s face, followed by something I hadn’t seen in twenty-four hours: a smile.
“Can we really do that?”
“Sweetheart, we’re not breaking any laws. We’re just moving snow. If Mr. Dickinson has a problem with it, he’s welcome to call the police, but I don’t think he wants to explain to the authorities why he’s upset about snow being placed on his property when he refused to pay a minor for clearing that exact same property.”
“This is brilliant,” Mark said, grinning. “Completely insane, but brilliant.”
“Are we being bad guys?” Annie asked, her eyes wide.
“No, baby,” I said, kneeling down to her level. “We’re being people who stand up for what’s right. Sometimes that means you have to get creative.”
And so we began.
The work was hard, harder than I’d anticipated. The snow was heavy and wet, the kind that makes your back ache after the first shovelful. But we worked as a team, a family united in purpose. Mark ran the snowblower, creating huge arcs of white powder that flew through the air. Ben and I followed with shovels, directing the snow, shaping it, moving it steadily toward Dickinson’s property. Even Annie helped in her way, using her little plastic shovel to push small amounts, singing Christmas carols off-key as she worked.
The eastern sky gradually lightened, painting the snow pink and gold. A few neighbors came out to see what we were doing. Mrs. Patterson, who’d already given us permission to clear her driveway, stood on her porch with her coffee, watching with obvious delight.
“Give him hell, Dani!” she called out.
Mr. Chen from two doors down wandered over, hands in his pockets. “I heard what happened. That’s some cold business, cheating a kid like that.” He paused. “You need help?”
“We’ve got it, but thank you,” I said, not breaking rhythm with my shovel.
“Well, I’ll make sure nobody bothers you,” he said with a wink.
As word spread down the block, more neighbors emerged. Some came to watch, standing on porches with their morning coffee. Others brought their own shovels and joined in. It turned into a neighborhood event, a silent coalition of people who’d all, at one time or another, been on the receiving end of Dickinson’s arrogance.
By eight o’clock, Dickinson’s driveway had disappeared under a mountain of snow. It wasn’t just a pile—it was a monument. The snow rose higher than the hood of his sleek black Mercedes, higher than his carefully trimmed hedges, nearly as high as the first-floor windows. We’d created a fortress of white, an avalanche’s worth of frozen water that completely blocked his driveway, his walkway, and a good portion of his front yard.
I stepped back, breathing hard, my arms aching but my heart singing.
“That,” I said, “is a job well done.”
Ben stood beside me, leaning on his shovel, his face flushed with exertion and something else—pride, maybe, or satisfaction. “Mom, this is amazing.”
“You did most of the work,” I told him. “We just helped you relocate it.”
Annie made a snow angel in a clear patch nearby, laughing as Mark helped her up. The neighbors who’d gathered were grinning, some taking pictures. Mrs. Patterson actually started a slow clap that others joined.
It was about nine-thirty when Dickinson finally noticed.
We’d gone inside to warm up, to have hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls that I’d made earlier. We were sitting around the kitchen table, all of us exhausted but happy, when we heard the roar.
“WHAT THE HELL?”
The bellow came from outside, loud enough to rattle our windows. I looked at Mark, who raised his eyebrows. Ben jumped up to look out the window.
“He found it,” Ben reported, barely suppressing a giggle.
We all went to the front porch to watch the show.
Gregory Dickinson stood in his front yard, still in what looked like pajamas under a long wool coat, staring at the mountain of snow that had consumed his driveway. His face had gone from its normal pink to an alarming shade of crimson. His hair, usually so perfectly styled, stuck up at odd angles.
He spotted us on our porch and came storming across the lawn, or tried to—the snow was deep enough that he had to high-step through it, which rather ruined the dramatic effect of his fury.
“WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO MY DRIVEWAY?”
I stepped down from the porch, meeting him halfway. Behind me, Mark positioned himself protectively, and I felt rather than saw several of our neighbors emerge to witness the confrontation.
“Good morning, Mr. Dickinson,” I said pleasantly. “I hope you slept well.”
“Don’t give me that. You know exactly what you did. This is—this is destruction of property! This is harassment! This is—”
“This is snow,” I interrupted calmly. “Just snow. We moved it from public property and other people’s driveways onto your property. I checked with the county—there’s no ordinance against that.”
“You can’t just dump snow on someone’s driveway!”
“Actually,” I said, pulling out my phone where I’d bookmarked the relevant county regulations, “I can. There’s no law preventing the placement of snow on private property, especially when it comes from public sidewalks and streets. Would you like me to read you the specific statute?”
He sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m calling the police.”
“Please do,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear about how you solicited free labor from a twelve-year-old boy, made verbal agreements about payment, and then refused to honor those agreements.”
“There was no agreement!”
“There were witnesses,” I said quietly. “Ben wasn’t the only one who heard you offer payment. Mrs. Patterson heard you. Mr. Chen heard you. Even your own landscaper heard you—I called him this morning, and he’s willing to testify if needed.”
This was partly a bluff—I’d called the landscaper, but he’d been noncommittal. Still, Dickinson didn’t know that.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, but some of the bluster had leaked out of his voice. He looked around at the gathered neighbors, at the people who’d lived on this street long before he’d arrived with his money and his attitude, and I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes.
“You know what this is really about?” I stepped closer, my voice low enough that only he and Mark could hear. “This is about quantum meruit.”
“Quantum what?”
“It’s a legal concept. Latin. It means ‘as much as he deserves.’ It’s used in cases where there’s no formal contract but one party has received benefits from another party’s labor. The courts recognize that it’s unjust enrichment to receive a benefit without paying for it.”
I was stretching the legal definition a bit, but the essence was true, and more importantly, it sounded official.
“The thing is, Mr. Dickinson, when you refuse to pay for someone’s labor, you lose the right to enjoy the benefits of that labor. My son shoveled your driveway. You refused payment. So we’ve simply returned things to their natural state—the state they would have been in if Ben had never touched your property.”
I gestured at the mountain of snow.
“This is what your driveway would look like if you hadn’t exploited my son. This is the consequence of your choice. You wanted to teach Ben about contracts and business? Consider this your education in reciprocity and community standards.”
Dickinson stared at me, and I could see the wheels turning. He was a businessman, after all. He understood leverage and consequences, even if he didn’t like being on the receiving end of them.
“Now,” I continued, “you have a few options. You can call the police, though I don’t think that will end the way you want it to. You can hire someone to clear all this snow, which, given the amount and the holiday, will probably cost you several hundred dollars. You can do it yourself, which will take days.”
I paused, letting that sink in.
“Or you can do the right thing. The thing you should have done in the first place. You can pay my son the eighty dollars you owe him, apologize for being cruel, and we’ll help you clear this snow. Your choice.”
The silence stretched out. I could hear Annie singing to herself on the porch. Somewhere down the street, someone’s dog barked. Dickinson looked at the snow mountain, at the neighbors watching with barely concealed glee, at me standing there with my arms crossed, and finally, at Ben, who watched from the porch with his sister.
“This is extortion,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“No,” I corrected. “Extortion would be if I demanded more than what’s owed. I’m asking for exactly what you agreed to pay. Eighty dollars. That’s it. Though I think an apology would be appropriate too.”
He glared at me for another long moment, then turned and stalked back to his house, wading through the snow. I thought maybe he really was going to call the police, and I prepared myself for that possibility. We hadn’t broken any laws, but I knew that wealthy men like Dickinson often got their way simply because they had the resources to make life difficult.
But twenty minutes later, he emerged again, this time fully dressed, and carrying an envelope.
He came across the lawn—we’d helpfully shoveled a path for him—and stood at the bottom of our porch steps. Up close, I could see how much this was costing him. Not the money—the money meant nothing to him. But his pride, his self-image as someone who was always in control, always on top—that was taking a beating.
“May I speak to Ben?” he asked, his voice tight.
I looked at my son, who nodded nervously and came down the steps. Mark moved to stand beside him, a quiet show of parental support.
Dickinson looked at Ben for a long moment, then held out the envelope.
“This is the eighty dollars I owe you,” he said. “And I… I apologize. What I did was wrong. I should not have made you work without paying you. I should not have used you to make some point about business. You’re a good kid, and you did excellent work.”
The words sounded like they were being extracted with pliers, but they were words nonetheless. Ben took the envelope carefully, as if it might disappear.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
Dickinson nodded stiffly, then looked at me. “I suppose you’ll want payment to clear the snow now too.”
“No,” I said, and saw surprise flicker across his face. “We’ll do it for free. Because that’s what neighbors do. They help each other. Not because they have to, not because there’s a contract, but because it’s the right thing to do.”
I let that sink in for a moment, then added, “Ben, you want to show Mr. Dickinson how you cleared his driveway? Show him the proper technique?”
My son looked up at me, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Yeah. I can do that.”
For the next two hours, our whole family, along with several neighbors who volunteered, cleared the snow from Dickinson’s property. We worked steadily, efficiently, and without complaint. Dickinson himself joined in, though awkwardly—I got the sense he hadn’t done much physical labor in years. But he tried, and I gave him credit for that.
By early afternoon, the driveway was clear again, the walkways pristine, the lawn tidied up. We’d even cleared the snow from around his cars and the sidewalk leading to his front door.
Dickinson stood in his cleared driveway, looking exhausted and perhaps a bit humbled. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“You’re welcome,” I replied. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Dickinson.”
He nodded, and something that might have been a genuine smile crossed his face. “Merry Christmas.”
That evening, after dinner, Ben sat at the kitchen table with his envelope. He counted the money carefully—eight crisp ten-dollar bills. Then he pulled out his notebook and, with a satisfied smile, wrote down his final total.
“Eighty dollars,” he said. “I did it.”
The next day, Christmas Eve, Ben and I went shopping. We went to Peterson’s Department Store first, where he proudly purchased the red scarf with the embroidered snowflakes. The saleswoman wrapped it carefully in silver paper with a red bow.
Then we headed to Hoffman’s Toy Emporium, where the dollhouse still sat in the window, its tiny lights twinkling. The price was exactly sixty-eight dollars with tax, leaving Ben with twelve dollars for his telescope fund.
“It’s perfect,” he said, watching as they boxed it up. “Annie’s going to lose her mind.”
On Christmas morning, Annie did indeed lose her mind. She shrieked with joy when she unwrapped the dollhouse, immediately starting to arrange the tiny furniture. She hugged Ben so hard he pretended he couldn’t breathe, which made her giggle.
When I opened my present and saw the red scarf, tears pricked my eyes. I wrapped it around my neck immediately, and Ben beamed with pride.
“It looks even better on you than I thought it would,” he said.
“It’s perfect, sweetheart. Thank you.”
Later, when the wrapping paper had been cleared away and Annie was absorbed in her dollhouse, Ben and I stood at the front window, looking out at the quiet street. Snow was falling again, gentle and soft, covering everything in a fresh blanket of white.
“Mom?” Ben said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did we help Mr. Dickinson clear the snow after what he did? We didn’t have to do that.”
I put my arm around my son’s shoulders, pulling him close. “You’re right, we didn’t have to. And if he hadn’t apologized, if he hadn’t paid you, we wouldn’t have. But once he did the right thing, even though it was hard for him, we had a choice.”
“What kind of choice?”
“We could have left him to deal with the mess alone, which would have been fair. Or we could have shown him what it looks like when people actually care about their community and each other. When they help not because they have to, but because it’s the right thing to do.”
