At 29, my life as a single mother of three—Emma, Josh, and Max—often feels like a constant balancing act performed over thin air. Our days are loud, messy, and ruled by sticky fingers, unanswered bills, and the quiet anxiety of never quite having enough. Every month feels like a race between rent, utilities, groceries, and exhaustion, and most days I’m not sure which one will catch me first.
Last Thursday started like so many others. The kids argued over cereal brands that barely filled the box. Someone stomped through the hallway roaring like a dinosaur. My phone buzzed nonstop—overdue rent reminders, an electric bill warning, and a message from my boss asking if I could pick up another long diner shift. When I opened the fridge and saw little more than a nearly empty milk jug and the last crust of bread, I grabbed my purse and headed to the neighborhood grocery store, hoping I could stretch a few dollars into dinner.
Inside, the bright lights and squeaking carts only amplified my fatigue. I chose the shortest checkout line and waited behind an elderly woman who looked impossibly small beneath her oversized, threadbare coat. Her posture was stooped, as if life itself had pressed down on her shoulders for decades. She placed just two items on the conveyor belt: a loaf of the cheapest bread and a gallon of milk.
The young cashier totaled the purchase. The woman opened a worn wallet and slowly counted coins and wrinkled bills with shaking hands. After a moment, she stopped, her voice barely audible. “I’m short,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
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