For weeks, my daughter kept coming home with free ice cream from a man I'd never met. I thought he was simply being kind, until she repeated something he had said about me that she couldn't possibly have known.
"Mom, the ice cream truck!"
Ellie shot toward the front door before I could put down the dish I was drying.
"Wait. You don't have any money."
She was already slipping on her sandals.
"I don't need any."
I stopped.
"What do you mean, you don't need any?"
By the time I asked, my nine-year-old daughter was already outside.
Through the kitchen window, I watched her hurry toward the ice cream truck parked near the end of our street.
Something about it bothered me.
Because this wasn't the first time.
For about two weeks, Ellie had been coming back inside with ice cream even though I knew she hadn't taken any money with her.
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 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."
I stared at the pink-and-white coating.
Strawberry shortcake bars actually had been my favorite when I was a kid.
Whenever an ice cream truck came down our street, I ordered the same thing.
But I didn't remember telling Ellie that.
Maybe she had mentioned that I liked strawberries.
Maybe the driver had guessed.
There had to be an ordinary explanation.
"Did you tell him my name?"
"No."
"Did you tell him I used to eat those?"
"No."
That bothered me.
"Has he asked you anything else about me?"
Ellie thought for a moment.
"I don't think so."
"What do you two talk about?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"He asks how I'm doing. Sometimes he asks if I had a good day."
That didn't make me feel better.
I crouched in front of her.
"Ellie, I don't want you taking anything else from him unless I'm there. Okay?"
Her forehead wrinkled.
"Why?"
"Because you shouldn't keep accepting things from adults we don't know."
"But he's nice."
"He might be. I still want to meet him."
Ellie sighed.
"Okay."
For the next couple of days, the truck didn't come.
I found myself listening for that irritating little melody every evening.
Nothing.
By the third evening, I wondered whether I had overreacted.
Then the familiar music drifted through the open window as I cleared the dinner table.
Ellie looked at me.
I looked at her.
"Can I?"
"I'm coming with you."
Her face lit up.
We walked outside together.
The truck had stopped halfway down the street, and several children were gathered around it.
I studied the driver as we approached.
He was probably in his late 50s or early 60s, with gray hair, a baseball cap, and glasses.
Just a regular older guy.
Nothing about him seemed familiar.
Ellie walked up to the window.
He smiled immediately.
"Hey, kiddo."
Then he saw me standing behind her.
His smile disappeared.
He stared.
Not dramatically.
He genuinely looked like he was trying to place my face.
Finally, he looked at Ellie.
"You're Ellie's mom?"
"Yes."
He nodded a couple of times.
Then he said my first name.
"Sarah?"
My stomach dropped.
I hadn't told him.
Ellie had said she hadn't either.
"Do I know you?"
He gave a nervous little laugh.
"Probably not anymore."
That answer annoyed me more than anything.
"What does that mean?"
The man glanced at the children waiting behind us.
