For two years, I worked as a cashier at a small, cozy store nestled in the heart of our neighborhood. It wasn’t glamorous, but I loved the work. The regular customers became more than shoppers to me—they were friends, even family. We’d share stories, celebrate birthdays, and comfort one another on hard days. It was a place of warmth.
But not everyone saw it that way.
The owner’s son, Derek, had recently taken more control of the business. He had big plans to modernize the store, turning it into a sleek boutique that, in his words, would “attract a better crowd.” To him, my friendliness was unprofessional. He made it clear he thought I didn’t fit in with his vision.
Then one day, everything changed.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The store was quiet, and I was tidying up near the counter when I noticed a girl—probably no older than twelve—walk in. Her clothes were soaked, and she looked cold and tired. She wandered near the food section, then suddenly grabbed a sandwich and ran.
I froze for a second. Then instinct took over. I quickly asked a kind regular to watch the register and ran after her.
I found her sitting behind the building, trying to light a small candle she had stuck into the sandwich. I asked her if she was okay, and she hesitated. Then, quietly, she told me it was her birthday. She was alone, living in a shelter, and the sandwich was her “cake.”
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