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A cheesy Christmas movie plays in the background while she takes a seat at the table, a stack of bills spread out in front of her.

“Mom?”

She looks up immediately.

“Yeah, Stephy?”

“Can we get ice cream?”

She blinks.

“Ice cream?”

I nod.

“It’s snowing pretty hard.”

I shrug.

I don’t really have a reason.

I just want another hour with her before she tucks me into bed and stays awake worrying about tomorrow.

She studies me for a long moment before smiling.

“You and that sweet tooth…”

Then she opens her purse.

Looks inside.

And goes quiet.

Even at nine years old, I notice.

I just don’t understand what I’m seeing.

“All right, sweetheart.”

She stands, grabs her coat, and reaches for mine.

“Let’s go get you some ice cream.”

I’m off the couch so fast I almost trip over my own feet.

Looking back, I know she can’t afford that ice cream.

She simply can’t tell me no.

That’s the thing about mothers like mine.

They’d rather go without than let their children believe they have to.

The vintage ice cream shop at the end of the street is still open.

Its yellow neon sign flickers against the snow while the owner greets us with her usual warm smile.

I order cookies and cream with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Mom orders strawberry with nuts and pineapple syrup.