My 6-year-old son emptied his piggy bank to help our elderly neighbor when her house went dark — but the next morning, our yard was covered with piggy banks, patrol cars blocked the street, and one officer handed me a red piggy bank with a war:ning: “Break this open.”

“We can try to help her as much as we can.”

He hugged his piggy bank to his chest.

“I want to help too.”

“Grown-up bills are big.”

“Then I’ll start small, Mom.”

He swallowed hard.

“Oliver,” I said gently. “It’s okay. I’ll help.”

“No.” His little face became serious. “I want it to be mine.”

“Why?”

“Because you already take care of us. You buy cereal and shoes and dinosaur toothpaste. Mrs. Adele takes care of me too. She gives me candy and asks about my spelling tests.”

I had to turn away for a second.

Then I grabbed my coat.

“Okay. Your gift, my help. We’ll do it together.”

Mrs. Adele took a long time to answer the door.

When she finally opened it, she was wearing her winter coat inside. Her house behind her was dark and cold.

“Oh, Carmen,” she said. “I didn’t mean for you to come over. I’m all right, darling.”

“Mrs. Adele, is your power out?”