I was one loud beep away from falling apart in the bread aisle. After a 12-hour shift, my feet felt like they were made of cement, and the grocery store’s buzzing fluorescent lights only made the exhaustion sharper. I just needed the basics—bread, milk, cheese, something frozen I could call dinner. My daughters were home, wrapped in blankets and teenage moods, both fighting the same stubborn cold. Since the divorce, “normal life” had become noise, clutter, and chores that never, ever ended.
I spotted Rick, the store manager, near the entrance.
“How’s Glenda doing?” I asked.
He grinned. “Better. She still swears you’ve got magic hands.”
“It was just pudding,” I laughed.
“And the girls?”
“Arguing over feeding the cat. One’s mad her team lost, the other is growing science experiments in her closet. You know—teenagers.”
We shared a tired laugh, then parted ways. I pushed my cart into the crowd and felt myself finally breathe. The store was a familiar kind of chaos—crying toddlers, squeaky wheels, cart traffic jams, and a staticky announcement about rotisserie chickens.
Continue reading on next page…