Date: April 22, 2025
Author: Sam Wilson
It’s funny how something so small can stick with you for so long. I’m talking about a memory from about 45 years ago, when I was just a kid, barely old enough to understand the value of money but old enough to know how to get my hands on it.
That summer, my mom was working, and I was in charge of watching my little sister. Looking back, I’m sure she was barely a toddler, and I, on the other hand, was probably around 10 or 11. It felt like I had all the freedom in the world. And with that freedom came opportunities—like the can my dad kept in the back of his closet.
It wasn’t just any can, but one filled with 50-cent pieces. Now, I wasn’t really the kind of kid who asked for things—more like the type who waited for stuff to come my way. But I learned early on that those shiny silver coins could get me something I really wanted: ice cream. Every now and then, I would sneak into my dad’s closet when no one was around, take a coin, and head straight to the corner store with my little sister in tow.
I don’t even remember how often I did this, but I know that it became a routine. I’d pick up a cone, or maybe a popsicle, and feel the satisfaction of getting what I wanted, all with a simple coin I’d stolen from my dad’s secret stash. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. The ice cream was a sweet reward, and the coins seemed so… disposable. But much later, as I grew older and started understanding things like money and its real value, it hit me: those weren’t just any coins. They were silver, and I probably took more than my fair share.
By then, I had long forgotten how many trips to the store we had made, but I could never shake the feeling that I had taken more than I realized. I imagine my dad must have noticed, though he never said anything. He probably knew that a coin or two had gone missing, but maybe he just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe he figured that as a kid, I didn’t understand the consequences of what I was doing. I never confessed, and to this day, I’m sure I’ve never told him.
The part that still haunts me isn’t the fact that I stole a few coins for a sweet treat—after all, it was a small theft. It’s the thought of how much those little acts added up, and how they might have affected my dad. I can’t imagine how many 50-cent pieces I took over that summer. Ice cream was probably much more expensive than I realized, and each coin I took was probably worth way more than I could understand at the time.
It’s strange—how such a small act can stick with you for decades. Even though it happened so long ago, I still think about those coins and wonder if my dad knew. And while I know I can’t go back and change it, I’ll always carry the memory of that summer—and the weight of those stolen 50-cent pieces—with me.
