When I was 13 or 14, I was old enough to stay home alone, but immature enough to have a grand time trying on my mom’s jewelry when she was out of the house. Sorry mom. There’s nothing more precious to a girl than her mom’s jewelry. High heels and makeup are close contenders, but from a young age, we seem to understand that diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

But this post is not about being a girl, nor is it about pretty sparkly things.

It’s about a bunny.

A chocolate Easter bunny.

One Easter during this period of my life in which my unsuspecting parents trusted me at home by myself even though I would sneak into their closet and play with the sparklies, my mom got all of us chocolate Easter bunnies. Really big ones. Even my dad got one. Being young and in possession of a much faster metabolism than the one I have these days, my bunny was gone in a matter of days.

At some point after Easter, I found myself examining a gold chain around my neck in my parents’ closet when I noticed my dad’s bunny on his shelf. The ears were gone, but the rest of him was still immaculately wrapped in colorful foil.

There’s no way my dad will notice just a teeny piece missing, I thought to myself as I carefully peeled back the foil and broke off a barely discernable bite of chocolate.

A little while after that, I found myself craving Easter bunny, and I wondered if my dad had eaten any more. If he hadn’t, I knew I couldn’t sneak another piece, as the amount missing would be too big to avoid detection.

I tiptoed to the bunny shelf, and was happy to see that another chunk of Mr. Bunny was gone. So I took just the teeniest little piece. Really. It was so small that I could hardly taste it.  So I took a little more.

And then I freaked out that my dad would figure it out, and I waited for him to ask me about it. He didn’t. And the next time I went to see if the bunny was still there, it was even shorter. I knew I hadn’t been caught, because my dad had obviously been there, seen the bunny, not noticed anything unusual, and had enjoyed some himself.

So I stole another morsel.

This went on and on over a few days, until one day my dad walked out of his room with a pair of chocolate bunny feet in his hand, and asked, “How is it that my Easter bunny, the one I have not had a single taste of, is now reduced to nothing but his feet?”

“I did it! I’m sorry!”

My mom and I confessed at the same time. We had each assumed the other eater was my dad. When we realized what had happened, the best chocolate bunny story of all time was born, and not a single Easter passes without its retelling with raucous laughter.

Apples apparently don’t fall very far from their trees, in matters of jewelry and chocolate bunnies.