In one of my earliest Hallowe'en memories, I am about 8 years old and following my Tía Cherola up an unfamiliar driveway.

She was dressed as a witch, a costume she chose every year, and I was an “old lady” wearing a white wig and brown faux fur shawl. In my family, we rarely bought new costumes. We usually made them from material we already had at home or pulled them together from a bag filled with bits and pieces of costumes that had already been worn by relatives in years past. That white wig was a favourite item in the bag, meaning it had sat on plenty of heads before it reached mine.

That night, my Tía Cherola had volunteered to take a few of my cousins and me trick-or-treating. I recall us laughing and walking up and down blocks as our bags grew heavy with sweets. But for the most part, specific details of that night have become blurred with time — except for one moment.

At the end of that unfamiliar driveway stood a woman, handing out full-sized candy bars. She might have been wearing a costume, or she might have been wearing a bathrobe. In my mind, once I saw what was in her hands, she seemed coated in gold. So had the other people who had handed out full-sized bars that night.

“Trick or treat,” I said, looking up through my fake “old lady” glasses.

She started to drop a candy in my bag, but then pulled her arm back and paused. She looked at me and said, “Didn't you already come by here?”

The truth was I had no idea if we had. I didn’t know her house from the next. I was following my aunt through a neighbourhood that wasn’t hers or mine.

On Hallowe’en night, there are two types of children: there are those who can walk outside their homes, knock on their neighbours’ doors and get their plastic pumpkins filled with treats. And then there are the nomads — the children who have to pile into cars or get on public transportation to go trick-or-treating along blocks that are not theirs.

Growing up, I always fell into the latter group. Every Hallowe’en, we went to other people’s neighbourhoods, where the houses looked fancier and the streets felt safer. I grew up on the southside of San Antonio and while I rarely felt frightened walking home during the day, night brought a different scene. Drive-by shootings, gang violence and stray dogs made some blocks riskier than others.

On that Hallowe’en night I spent with my aunt, we were in a middle-class neighbourhood that had well-paved streets and clean sidewalks. I can’t remember if that woman who pulled that candy away ended up tossing it in my bag. Knowing me, I probably walked away before she had the chance to decide. What I do remember is feeling embarrassed that she thought we were purposely being greedy. I also remember making a promise to myself: one day, I would give out full-sized candy.

I know, I know. It seems a silly goal. Of all the weighty ways a person can make a difference in the lives of others, buying big ol’ Hershey bars is low on the needed list. I get that.

I also get why some parents might despise their children getting all that chocolate in one dose. Fun-sized sugar rushes are so much easier to manage. Those tiny candies are also easier to sneak from your children’s stash when they aren’t looking. It took my sons, who are now 8 and 10, years to realise my husband and I used to take candy from their collection after they went to bed to slow their consumption.

But despite all the reasons not to do it, this year, y’all, I’m doing it. I’ve bought full-sized candy bars and for the first time, I’m handing them out on Hallowe’en night.

To some of you, this may not seem a significant thing.

But others of you, and especially those of you who have participated in that nomadic tradition, will understand why I’m so excited.

I actually didn’t expect something so simple to feel so satisfying. I am usually careful about how I spend money. I buy my clothes second-hand and keep my vehicles until they die of old age. And in past years, I have applied my penchant for bargain shopping to my Hallowe’en candy selections. Buy one get one 50 per cent off? Yes, please.

For most of my adulthood, I had blocked out that childhood vow. Then last year, while taking my children trick-or-treating, a memory of that long-ago Hallowe’en swept over me. We came to a house not far from where we live that was handing out full-sized candy and I saw my children vibrate with joy. I also felt the eight-year-old in me sigh. I had not fulfilled my promise to her.

It has been a hard few years for children — emotionally, socially, educationally. They have been asked to learn and thrive while experiencing death and struggle all around them, and those who live in neglected neighbourhoods have experienced more death and more struggle than their peers.

We need to invest in our children more than ever — in real ways. We need to do more to make sure their streets and schools feel safe and equipped to address their needs. We need to make sure their teachers feel compensated and supported enough, and that students understand we know they are more than their test scores.

I am not wealthy enough to change inequities in any significant way with my wallet. Newspaper reporting is not the kind of field that allows for that. But I feel fortunate that my family live in a neighbourhood that feels safe, and is one where young people come from other parts of the region to visit on Hallowe’en night.

When those children show up at our door this year, those who are old enough for candy will find full-sized Kit Kats, Reese’s Cups and Hershey bars, and those who are too young for candy will find small toys. They will find that whether they are familiar faces from the neighbourhood or just passing through for the night.

• Theresa Vargas is a local columnist for The Washington Post. Before joining the Post, she worked at Newsday in New York. She has degrees from Stanford University and Columbia University School of Journalism