When my 12-year-old son Ben eagerly agreed to shovel snow for our wealthy neighbor Mr. Dickinson at $10 per day, he was thrilled. His plan? To earn enough money to buy meaningful gifts for the family. But when Mr. Dickinson refused to pay, dismissing it as a “lesson in contracts,” Ben was heartbroken. That’s when I decided it was time for a lesson of my own—a lesson in accountability.
Ben’s excitement was palpable. “Mom! Mr. Dickinson said he’ll pay me $10 every time I shovel his driveway!”
“That’s great, sweetheart,” I replied, tousling his hair. “What are you going to do with all that money?”
His face turned serious. “I’m going to buy you a scarf and get Annie a dollhouse.”
By December 23rd, Ben was a snow-shoveling machine. Every morning, he’d head out humming Christmas carols, returning home tired but proud.
But one morning, Ben burst through the door, tears in his eyes. “Mr. Dickinson isn’t paying me, Mom,” he choked out. “He said it’s a lesson—‘no contract, no payment.’”
I hugged him tightly, seething inside. Mr. Dickinson’s arrogance was infamous, but cheating a child to prove a point? That crossed the line.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I said, determination brewing. “We’ll handle this.”
The next morning, armed with shovels, a snowblower, and a plan, my husband, Ben, little Annie, and I got to work. But this wasn’t just about clearing driveways—it was about sending a message.
We started by shoveling snow from our driveway and the sidewalks. Then, we piled every last bit of it onto Mr. Dickinson’s pristine driveway. By the time we finished, his luxury car was entombed in a fortress of snow.
Ben grinned as he leaned on his shovel. “That’s a lot of snow, Mom.”
“Exactly, honey. Consider it a lesson in fairness.”
By mid-morning, the neighborhood buzzed with amusement as Mr. Dickinson discovered our handiwork. Furious, he stormed over, his face matching the red of his holiday lights.
“What have you done to my driveway?” he yelled.
“Oh, just undoing the work you refused to pay for,” I said, calm and composed. “Fair’s fair, right?”
Dickinson sputtered. “You can’t do that!”
“Actually, I can,” I replied, gesturing to our amused neighbors. “And if you’d like to call a lawyer, I’d be happy to explain quantum meruit—where unpaid labor means you lose the benefits of it.”
Realizing he was cornered, Dickinson retreated. By evening, he reappeared with an envelope and a mumbled apology.
Ben beamed as he opened it—eight crisp $10 bills.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, hugging me.
“No, thank you, sweetheart,” I replied. “You taught me what determination really looks like.”
That winter, we didn’t just shovel snow. We shoveled life lessons—straight onto Mr. Dickinson’s driveway.
