The next morning, my husband, Ben, and I got to work. We shoveled snow not just from our driveway but piled it all back onto Dickinson’s pristine drive. Hours later, his sleek car was buried under a mountain of snow.
When Dickinson stormed over, shouting, I calmly explained: “It’s called quantum meruit. If you don’t pay for someone’s labor, you don’t get to enjoy the results. Fair’s fair.” His face turned red as neighbors silently watched. Realizing he’d lost, Dickinson stomped back inside.
By evening, he returned with an envelope containing $80 and a mumbled apology. Ben’s face lit up as he held the money. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, hugging me.
“No, Ben,” I whispered, ruffling his hair. “Thank you for reminding me what real perseverance looks like.”