She came in around 11:30, moving like a prayer—slow, careful, a sleeping boy draped across her shoulder. Hair pulled back, sweatshirt worn thin, eyes hollowed out by a week’s worth of worry. She made a quiet loop through the aisles and placed three things on the counter: milk, bread, diapers. No extras. No indulgences. I told her the total and watched her count crumpled bills twice.Continue reading…
