My feet throbbed, my back ached, and I was one wrong beep away from crying in the bread aisle.
I just needed milk, bread, cheese, and something frozen I could throw in the oven without thinking. Survival groceries for a forty-three-year-old mom who hadn’t slept properly in years.
That’s when I saw Yves, the store manager, near the registers.
“Hey, how’s Glenda doing?” I asked, managing half a smile.
He lit up. “Much better, Fable. She still says you’ve got magic hands after the way you took care of her post-surgery.”
“She just liked the pudding I brought,” I laughed.
We chatted for thirty seconds (long enough for the day to feel a little lighter), then I pushed my cart toward the express lane.
An older man stood ahead of me, small and slightly stooped in a worn coat. On the belt: one loaf of bread, one jar of peanut butter, one small carton of milk. The kind of groceries that break your heart with how little they are.
