“Why did you tell Dale everything we did?”
Rob answered,
“Because sometimes when someone treats you badly, the strongest response is showing them very clearly what kind of person you choose to be.”
“The letter showed him?”
“The letter told him. What we did showed him.”
Leo thought about that.
“He called us thieves.”
“Yes.”
“But we gave everything away.”
“Yes.”
“So we did the opposite of stealing.”
Rob smiled.
“Exactly.”
Winter came.
Dale didn’t suddenly become a cheerful old man.
He didn’t start coming over for coffee.
He didn’t become affectionate.
But something changed.
He acknowledged us differently.
There was less hostility in him.
One afternoon, Leo saw Dale fixing a gutter.
He asked if he needed help.
Dale initially said no.
Then changed his mind.
Leo spent half an hour handing him tools from the ground.
When he came inside afterward, he said,
“I don’t think Dale is really mean.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What do you think he is?”
Leo shrugged.
“Maybe lonely.”
For a nine-year-old, it wasn’t a bad assessment.
The following August, the apples began falling again.
Maya was seven now.
Leo was ten.
One Sunday afternoon, they went outside with the same blue bucket.
They began picking up apples.
Then Dale appeared at the fence.
Both children stopped.
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then Dale asked,
“You doing the applesauce again?”
“If we get enough,” Leo answered.
Dale nodded.
“I’ve got a whole bushel over here I won’t use.”
He disappeared for a moment.
Then returned carrying a heavy bag.
He lifted it across the fence.
“You want these too?”
Leo looked at Maya.
Maya looked at Leo.
“Yeah,” Leo said. “We’ll use them.”
“Surplus,” Dale muttered. “Can’t use it.”
Then he went inside.
Maya stared at the bag.
“He gave us apples.”
“He did.”
“So we can make more food for the food bank.”
“We can.”
She picked up the blue bucket.
And made four trips.
She always made four trips.
That was simply how many trips her small arms needed.
This time, nobody made her feel ashamed of it.
