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Katie Pursley

K. Jellum

ENG1113

1 October 2018

The Bitter Lesson of a Sweet Treat

There are many different ways to learn important lessons in life. Such a lesson came for

me when I was a very young child. My father had left us to begin a new life, and my mom was

doing her best to make it on her own without education or training to get a good job. Each time

we went somewhere, my mom would pick me up and set me on the seat of her old, rusty Ford

pickup so that I did not risk falling through the dinner-plate sized hole in the floorboard of the

truck. I was terrified of falling through that hole, but I enjoyed sneaking a warm embrace each

time Mama picked me up and buckled me in. Though my mother understood the desperation of

our financial situation, I had no reason at that age to think about money or what it was for.

However, my mother and a store manager made sure that I understood after I made the decision

to take something that had not been paid for. When I was four years old, I learned an important

lesson about the consequences of stealing.

My favorite day of the week was grocery day with Mama. There was always so much to

see, and I especially liked to look at the variety of candies with their bright, colorful wrappers

and boxes. Unfortunately, my mom was raising me on her own while she was in college, so our

little family of two did not have much extra money. On one such occasion, I saw a new type of

chocolate candy bar that I had never noticed before. It had wide, flat sides wrapped in dark

chocolate-brown paper with little bits of silver metallic wrapping sticking out of either end.

Though I could not read the big, block letters on the wrapper, I wanted that candy very much. I
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asked my mom, but she said she did not have any extra money. I did not understand why

Mama’s eyes were sad and her mouth frowned a little when she told me that; I wanted a candy,

not money. As we walked through the doors of the store and headed to the parking lot, no one

noticed the shiny end of the candy wrapper poking out of my pudgy, fisted hand.

As Mama went to put the heavy items into the back of the truck, I eagerly unwrapped the

candy, anticipating the first chocolaty bite. The crinkly sound of the foil wrapper made me

shiver a little in anticipation. However, when Mama came around to put me into the truck, she

saw the candy bar right away. The chocolate felt sticky and warm as it melted and began running

over my small fingers and across the back of my pudgy little hand. When she asked me why I

had taken it in a stern, disappointed voice, I felt ashamed, even though I did not understand why.

Mama explained that I had made a bad choice, and I would have to return to the store to give the

manager the stolen candy bar and apologize. I stared down at my small, scuffed shoes, and my

vision blurred from the tears in my eyes. She went on to explain that adults who steal often get

arrested and go to jail, which filled me with the fear that I would be taken away from my mom.

My dad had left the year before, so the thought of not being with her was a very frightening idea

for me. At that point, my eyes could no longer contain the tears, and they escaped, leaving

warm, wet trails on my cheeks as we walked back into the grocery store to find the manager and

face the consequences.

The manager was a stout little man with vertical blue stripes on his shirt, and his red tie

had little brown horses sprinkled across it like confetti. I could not bring myself to meet his eyes

as I stuck my arm out straight in front of me to return the stolen candy bar. His voice was kind

yet stern, and he told me that he was very disappointed that I had chosen to take it without

paying. I am certain that he and my mother had somehow communicated the message without
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my realizing because he then turned to me with a broom, telling me that I needed to sweep the

front of the store to earn the cost of the ruined candy bar. I continued to cry as I bobbled the

giant-seeming broom to sweep behind the registers, and I could feel the judgmental stares of the

employees and customers who passed. When I peeked up at them from beneath my blond, blunt-

cut bangs, I saw frowning mouths and downward-cast eyebrows on heads that shook slowly back

and forth in disappointment. I tried to focus on the splintery wood of the broom’s handle in my

still-sticky hands instead of seeing the expressions on their faces. As we walked out of the store

once again, my mom dropped the candy bar into the trash can, and I vowed never to steal

anything again.

Though it must have been hard for my mother to stand by and watch me suffering so

miserably, I am grateful for her maternal fortitude. I have never stolen anything again because

she and the store manager cared enough about my character to make me suffer through the

consequences of my actions at a young age. Had they not taken pity on me, I might have gotten

into more trouble later in life. I am glad that I learned the embarrassment and shame of stealing

when I was a young child.