The grocery store checkout line is often a place of quiet desperation, a microcosm of hidden burdens and private anxieties. For me, it was forty-eight hours before payday, and my bank account held exactly twenty-seven dollars. My back ached from the weight of Owen, my rambunctious toddler, who was currently waging a campaign for a packet of sour worms. I was balancing on the edge of burnout, silently pleading with the universe for a smooth exit without a tantrum or a financial hiccup.
Directly in front of us was an elderly woman who looked to be in her late seventies. She was the picture of fragile dignity, her silver hair pinned into a neat bun and her pale green cardigan showing the thinning elbows of long use. Her cart held the essentials—bread, milk, potatoes—but nestled among them was a small apple pie with a sugar-dusted crust. She watched the scanner with an intensity that signaled she was counting every cent.Continue reading…
