My 7-year-old son, Eli, befriended the one neighbor on our cul-de-sac that most people avoided—Ms. Eleanor, the elderly woman living in a dark, ivy-covered house at the end of the street. At first, I thought it was sweet. Then Eli came home with cash.Alarm bells went off. Who pays a child for baking cookies?I asked Eli about it, and he insisted they were just baking.
But soon he started bringing home more money—$10, then $20. I was concerned. Ms. Eleanor was a recluse, likely on a fixed income. Why was she paying him? What else were they doing?He tried brushing it off, saying it was “a surprise,” but I wasn’t having it. One day, I dropped him off and lingered. I found an opening in the curtains and peeked inside—Eli and Ms.