The Free Lemonade Stand We Built

I tried the quiet way first

I want to say this plain, because I know how it looks. I did not go straight to a corner with a sign. I tried the sensible thing first, and the sensible thing failed.

I asked Roy to pay them. Not a lot. I said, Roy, what if the store keeps enough to cover the powder and the cups, call it ten dollars, and the kids split the rest. They did the work. Pay the workers.

He heard me out. He is not a man who refuses to listen. And then he said, “Megan, if I pay them, it isn’t a lesson anymore. It’s an allowance. I’m not going to teach my grandchildren that effort comes with a guaranteed check. The world does not work that way and I love them too much to lie to them about it.”

I could have fought him on it. I am not a woman who can’t hold her ground. But Roy is Ted’s father, and Ted was three months into learning the supply side from him, and our mortgage and our name and our whole return to this town ran straight through that man’s good will. You do not win an argument with the father in law who is teaching your husband the trade. You lose the peace for a year and you still don’t get the kids their money.

So I did not call him a thief, which is the sentence that was sitting right there in my mouth. I did not make Ted pick a side in the back of the store. I said, all right, Roy, I hear you, and I took my children home.

And on the drive home Luke asked me a question from the back seat that I have not forgotten.

“Mama,” he said, “is Mr. Dunbar going to be sad we’re closed next week?”