I was forty years old and working the late shift as a cashier in a small neighborhood grocery store, the kind of place that stays open just long enough for exhausted people to grab what they forgot during the day. It wasn’t the job I imagined for myself growing up, but it paid most of the bills, and at that point in my life, “most” felt like something to be grateful for.
When you stand behind a register long enough, you get good at reading people. You can tell who’s rushing, who’s lonely, who’s counting every dollar in their head while pretending not to panic. Parents are the easiest to spot. They smile at their kids while their eyes do math no one taught them how to do.
That night it was almost eleven, ten minutes before closing. The store was half-dark, the aisles quiet, the steady hum of refrigerators louder than the canned music overhead. My feet ached, my patience was thin, and I was already thinking about whatever sad snack I’d eat before bed.
Then she stepped into my lane.
Early thirties, maybe. Hair in a messy bun, hoodie faded from too many washes, cheap leggings, worn sneakers. A baby was strapped to her chest in a soft wrap, his cheek pressed into her collarbone. She looked exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
She smiled politely. I smiled back.
“You’re our last customer,” I said. “Lucky you.”
She gave a tired half-laugh. “Lucky isn’t the word I’d use, but we made it.”
She unloaded her cart. It didn’t take long. Bread. Eggs. Milk. One large can of baby formula. No snacks. No extras. Just the basics. I scanned everything and read the total.
“Thirty-two forty-seven.”
She opened her wallet. I watched her count the bills, lips moving silently. Her forehead creased. She checked another pocket. Then a small zip pouch. Then the back of her wallet, like money might appear if she believed hard enough.
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