Instead, I now know the price of diapers in every store within ten miles. I compare formula brands down to the last cent.
My income comes from my late husband’s pension and the small savings we spent a lifetime building. Each month, that account shrinks a little more.
Some nights, I heat up a can of soup and remind myself that Lily doesn’t know the difference between expensive formula and the store-brand version.
She’s healthy.
That’s what matters.
A few weeks ago, I had one of those days when everything felt heavier than usual.
My back ached from carrying Lily all morning. The kitchen sink had started leaking again, and I couldn’t afford a plumber. The washing machine made that grinding sound that meant it was probably about to break. Replacing it wasn’t even an option.
And we were completely out of diapers and baby food.
So I bundled Lily into her carrier, put on my old winter coat, and headed to the grocery store.
The cold November air hit us the moment we stepped outside. I pulled my coat tighter around us and whispered to her,
