I’d always known my son Ben had a bigger heart than the world deserved.
He was twelve—gangly limbs, scraped knees, and that particular kind of optimism kids carry before life tries to sand it down. The kind that makes them believe effort is always met with fairness, that adults mean what they say, and that the world keeps its promises if you do your part.
It started on a snowy morning in early December. I was making breakfast—eggs, toast, the usual—when Ben came flying into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the cold, hair damp at the edges from melted snow.
“Mom!” he said, out of breath and glowing like he’d won something. “Mr. Dickinson said he’ll pay me ten dollars every time I shovel his driveway!”