He wore them every single day.
To school.
To the grocery store.
To bed sometimes.
Rain soaked them.
Mud stained them.
Winter cracked the soles.
But Andrew refused to replace them.
Then life got harder.
The bills piled up faster than I could pay them. My husband had been the steady income. I worked long shifts waitressing at a diner across town, smiling at customers while feeling hollow inside.
Eventually even that job disappeared.
One afternoon my manager pulled me aside.
“You’re a good worker,” he said carefully, avoiding eye contact. “But customers are complaining.”
“Complaining about what?”
He hesitated.
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