The grocery store I worked at wasn’t anything fancy—just a cozy little spot tucked between a laundromat and a bakery. The kind of place where neighbors remembered your name, where holiday cookies showed up from kindhearted regulars, and where Mr. Simmons stacked his groceries like he was building a masterpiece.
It started like any other shift. I smiled, scanned items, and kept one eye on the clock. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the just-cleaned floors. Everything felt comfortingly normal—until the front doors flew open.
She entered with an air of urgency. Mid-to-late thirties, hair windswept, expression intense. At her side was a little boy, no older than seven, holding tightly to her hand. He looked nervous. She looked determined.
“Where are the organic apples?” she asked abruptly as she reached the register. “I need two bags, not one.”
Caught off guard, I replied gently, “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ve had some supply delays lately, and—”
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