A few years ago, when my niece and nephew were just tots, about four and three years old, everyone was over for a family dinner for one reason or another. We all sat talking, eating appetizers, and taking turns playing with the kids as they dragged out one toy after another.

It became my turn to play with the kids and they had just dragged out a little box of matchbox cars. Naturally, they each wanted to play with all the cars by themselves and were close to going into tantrums, so I suggested that we divide them up. They looked at me skeptically as I placed the fifteen cars in a line on the floor.

One by one and turn by turn I walked them through selecting cars from the line. As we got closer to the end, when they each had five cars and there were five left in the line, the tension in the room was very high. My niece and nephew had already done the math, and so did all the aunts, uncles, and grandparents who watched quietly. As they were selecting the sixth car I could see them readying their protest to the unfairness of their sibling getting one more car, and I could feel the adults lining up their criticisms to assert that they knew the outcome. With the seventh car they were both ready to pounce and the adults were already starting to cringe. In that moment, however, I firmly but slowly reached out with my hand and took the last car saying in my most sinister voice, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “This one is mine, and I will be keeping it in my garage.” My niece and nephew watched with building delight as I put the car in my breast pocket.

They both were happy to not have the car, so long as the other didn’t have it either. The adults went back to their conversations realizing there would be nothing to criticize.