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“Mom, Mr. Dickinson said he’ll pay me $10 every time I shovel his driveway!” His grin stretched ear to ear.
Mr. Dickinson, our neighbor, was as insufferable as he was wealthy.
It wasn’t hard to guess he thought he was doing us all a favor by letting Ben “earn” his money. Still, Ben’s excitement was contagious, and I wasn’t about to crush his enthusiasm.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” I said, ruffling his hair. “What’s the plan for all this cash?”
“I’m buying you a scarf,” he said with the seriousness only a 12-year-old could muster.
“And a dollhouse for Annie.”
His eyes sparkled as he described every detail of the red scarf with tiny snowflakes, and the dollhouse with working lights that Annie had been obsessed with since she saw it in the toy store’s window display.
My heart swelled. “You’ve got it all planned out, huh?”
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