"Maybe this isn't the best time."
"No. I think now is a great time."
Ellie looked between us.
"Mom?"
I rested my hand on her shoulder.
"How do you know my name?"
The driver removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
Then he looked directly at me.
"You really don't recognize me?"
"No."
Something passed across his face.
Disappointment, maybe.
Or sadness.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have assumed."
"Assumed what?"
"That you'd remember."
My irritation turned into unease.
"Remember you from where?"
A child behind us complained about the wait.
The driver glanced toward the line.
"Give me a minute."
He served the remaining children while Ellie and I stepped aside.
I considered leaving.
But I couldn't go home knowing this stranger knew my name and remembered what ice cream I'd eaten as a child.
When the last child walked away, he closed the service window halfway.
"I haven't seen you in a long time."
"How long?"
He hesitated.
"More than 30 years."
I searched his face.
Nothing.
"Where did you know me from?"
"You lived over on Brookside when you were little, didn't you?"
My chest tightened.
I had.
My family moved away when I was 11.
"How do you know that?"
He smiled faintly.
"You used to wait at the curb every Friday afternoon."
"For an ice cream truck?"
"For mine."
I stared at him.
He would have been in his 20s back then.
I tried to imagine him without the gray hair and glasses.
Still nothing.
"You drove an ice cream truck back then?"
"For a few summers."
"And you remember one kid from more than 30 years ago?"
His expression changed.
"You weren't just one kid."
Ellie moved closer to me.
"What does that mean?"
He looked at her, then back at me.
"I knew your family."
My pulse quickened.
"Who?"
Instead of answering, he reached beneath the counter.
My whole body tensed.
Then he brought out an old photograph.
The edges were worn, and a crease ran through the middle.
"I didn't know whether I should show you this."
"Why do you have a photograph of my family?"
He swallowed.
"Because it belongs to me."
I reached for it.
After a hesitation, he handed it over.
The photograph had faded with age.
An ice cream truck stood in the background.
In front of it was a little girl, grinning at the camera while holding a strawberry shortcake bar.
I knew her immediately.
Me.
I couldn't have been older than eight.
Ellie leaned over my arm.
"Mom, that's you!"
"Yeah."
But I barely heard her.
A young man stood beside me in the photograph.
Dark hair.
No glasses.
One hand rested on my shoulder.
I looked from his face in the picture to the older man behind the counter.
It was him.
"What is this?"
He stared at the photograph.
"You really don't remember?"
"No."
He let out a slow breath.
Then I turned the photograph over.
Something was written across the back in faded blue ink.
My childhood nickname.
A date.
And beneath them, five words that made my hands begin to shake.
I looked up.
"Why would you write this?"
The driver went pale.
"I didn't."
"Then who did?"
He stared at the handwriting.
"Your mother."
"My mother gave you this?"
The driver nodded.
I looked at the photograph again.
My mother had been gone for years.
Yet this man had kept a photograph of me for more than three decades.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Ben."
The name stirred something.
Not quite a memory.
More like the feeling that I'd heard it long ago.
Ben watched my face.
"Still nothing?"
I shook my head.
"Tell me."
He leaned against the truck.
"I was friends with your older brother."
