For nearly three weeks, my eight-year-old daughter kept coming home with ice cream she had no money to buy.
The first time, it was a strawberry shortcake bar.
“Who gave you that?”
“The ice cream man.”
I assumed he had an extra.
Then it happened again.
By the third time, I asked why he kept giving her strawberry.
She shrugged.
“He said strawberry was your favorite too.”
I froze.
Strawberry shortcake bars had been my favorite when I was a child. Nora had never told him my name. She had never told him what I used to eat.
The next evening, when the familiar music came down our street, I walked outside with her.
The driver was in his mid-sixties, gray hair beneath a baseball cap and glasses.
He smiled at Nora.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Then he looked at me.
He went completely still.
“You’re her mother?”
“Yes.”
He stared at my face.
Then he said a name I had never given him.
“Delia.”
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