A bag of rice she knew would stretch.
A dozen eggs, holding them like they mattered—because they did.
She kept glancing at the running total in her head, as if she could see a number floating above the cart. She wasn’t sure what she had in her wallet without looking. She was afraid to look.
At the baby aisle, she stood staring at a pack of diapers that seemed to pulse under the fluorescent lights. The box was cheerful, bright colors, smiling cartoon animals. It looked like it belonged in a different life.
She picked it up, felt the weight, and tried to do the math again. If she skipped peanut butter, could she still—
But peanut butter was cheap protein. It was survival food. It was what you ate when you didn’t have money for meat.
If she skipped bread—
No. Bread stretched too.
Her chest tightened. She swallowed hard and put the diapers back on the shelf, not gently. Like she was angry at them for existing.
She leaned a hand on the cart handle and closed her eyes for a second, just a second, because she could feel that familiar pressure behind her eyes that meant tears were waiting, looking for an excuse.
