I’m a 40-year-old grocery store cashier, and covering $6 for a tired mom’s baby formula seemed like nothing—until the next morning, when my manager handed me an unexpected envelope with my name on it.
I covered $6 for groceries for a mom with a baby at the store — the next day, the manager called me in and handed me an envelope.
Not what I dreamed of as a kid, but it pays the bills. Mostly.
When you stand behind a register long enough, you learn to read people.
The rushed ones. The lonely ones.
The parents who smile at their kids while their eyes are screaming math. It was almost 11 p.m., 10 minutes to closing. The store was half-dark, aisles quiet, that hum of the refrigerators louder than the music.
My feet hurt, my patience was running low, and I was already planning what sad snack I’d eat before bed.
Then she stepped into my lane.
I work as a cashier in a small neighborhood grocery store.
Early 30s, maybe. Hair in a messy bun, hoodie that had been washed a hundred times, cheap leggings, old sneakers. She had a baby strapped to her chest in a soft wrap, his cheek mashed against her collarbone.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re our last customer. Lucky you.”
“Lucky is not the word I’d use. But we made it.”
She started unloading her cart. It didn’t take long. Bread. Eggs. A half gallon of milk. One big can of baby formula. No snacks. No extras. Just basics. I scanned everything and hit total.
“That’ll be $32.47.”
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