We lived in a normal suburban neighborhood, where an ice cream truck came through a few evenings a week during the summer.
Usually, the second Ellie heard the music, she was at the front door asking for three dollars.
Then, one afternoon, she came back holding a strawberry shortcake bar.
“I thought you didn’t have any allowance left.”
“I didn’t need it.”
“Why?”
“The man gave it to me.”
At first, I didn’t think much of it.
There were always neighborhood kids gathered around the truck.
I figured the driver was being nice or had an extra ice cream bar he couldn’t sell.
Then it happened again.
And again.
By the fourth time, my curiosity had turned into concern.
“Ellie, why does this guy keep giving you free ice cream?”
She shrugged.
“He says strawberry was your favorite too.”
I stopped what I was doing.
“My favorite?”
She nodded.
“He said you always got this one.”
