I paid for an elderly man’s essentials — two mornings later, a woman showed up at my door and said, “We need to talk — it’s about his last request.” I was exhausted aft…

I was one more long beep away from crying in the bread aisle. The grocery store lights buzzed overhead, that sharp fluorescent hum that somehow makes exhaustion feel louder. My feet throbbed after a 12-hour shift — the kind that sinks into your bones and reminds you that you’re not as young as you were the last time you checked.

I only needed a few things: bread, milk, cheese, something frozen I could pretend counted as dinner. My daughters were home, both fighting the same cold, wrapped in blankets and teenage attitude. Since the divorce, the house felt full of chaos and half-finished chores, and tonight, pushing that cart felt like climbing a mountain.

I paused near the entrance and spotted Rick, the store manager.

“How’s Glenda doing?” I asked.

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