Ben gestured toward the photograph.
"Read what she wrote."
I looked down.
Under my nickname and the date were five faded words: "Keep an eye on her."
My throat tightened.
"She wrote that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Your dad was working constantly, and your mom was struggling after Adam died."
Ben paused.
"She knew Adam would've wanted someone looking out for his little sister."
I stared at the photograph.
"So you did?"
"For a while."
Whenever Ben drove through our neighborhood, he watched for me.
Sometimes I had money.
Sometimes I didn't.
When I didn't, he gave me a strawberry shortcake bar anyway.
"You used to sit on the curb and tell me about school," he said. "You talked nonstop."
Ellie giggled.
"She still does."
"Hey."
Ben laughed.
For the first time, some of the tension disappeared.
But one question remained.
"Why didn't I remember you?"
His smile faded.
"Grief does strange things."
After Adam died, there were stretches of my childhood I remembered only in pieces.
My mother rarely spoke about those years later.
By the time we moved, Ben was no longer driving the route.
Life had simply carried us in different directions.
"How did you end up here?" I asked.
"Pure accident."
Ben had returned to driving an ice cream truck after retiring from his regular job.
Then, one afternoon, Ellie came running up to his window.
He hadn't recognized her.
"How did you figure out Ellie was my daughter?"
"At first, I didn't."
Over several visits, Ellie had casually mentioned her mother's name, her love of strawberry ice cream, and eventually Brookside.
I looked at Ellie.
"You told me you didn't give him my name."
Her cheeks reddened.
"I forgot!"
Ben smiled.
"None of it meant much on its own. But when she mentioned Brookside, I started wondering."
That night, he went home and searched through an old box.
Inside was the photograph my mother had given him more than 30 years earlier.
"So you brought it with you?"
"In case I ever saw you."
"I wasn't trying to scare you."
"Well, you succeeded."
"I'm sorry."
I believed him.
Ellie tugged my sleeve.
"Was Uncle Adam nice?"
I looked down at her.
She knew Adam's name, but I had barely told her anything about him.
That realization hurt.
Somewhere along the way, I had repeated part of what my family had done.
I had turned grief into silence.
"He was very nice," Ben said.
I looked at him.
"He adored your mom."
Ellie's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. She followed him everywhere."
"I did not."
Ben raised an eyebrow.
"You absolutely did."
Suddenly, I remembered.
Adam running down the sidewalk while I chased him.
Ben laughing from our driveway.
My brother buying me another ice cream after I'd dropped mine.
Strawberry shortcake.
The memory came back so clearly that my eyes filled.
Ben noticed.
"I'm sorry."
"No."
I wiped my cheek.
"Don't be."
For years, I'd thought forgetting was the same thing as healing.
Standing beside that ice cream truck, I realized how much I'd lost by refusing to look backward.
Not just Adam.
Pieces of myself too.
I handed Ben the photograph.
He shook his head.
"Keep it."
"It belongs to you."
"Your mother gave it to me because she wanted someone to keep an eye on you."
He looked at Ellie.
"I'd say that job isn't mine anymore."
Ellie smiled.
I turned the photograph over again.
"Keep an eye on her."
Five ordinary words.
