The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hum as I stepped into the brightly lit supermarket. I clutched the shopping list tightly, a single item circled in blue ink: ‘diapers.’ My heart sank deeper with each step toward the baby aisle. At 73, my joints protested every movement, but the weight pressing down on my chest was heavier. I picked a pack from the shelf, feeling the eyes of younger shoppers skim over me, curious, perhaps judgmental. At the checkout, the young cashier glanced at the diapers, then at me, with a momentary flicker of pity in her eyes. I fumbled with my card, the machine beeping angrily with each failed attempt. ‘Do you need help?’ she asked softly, her voice a balm to my fraying nerves. As I nodded, the line behind me shuffled awkwardly, impatient but silent. I felt a tap on my shoulder; turning, I found a stranger holding out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. ‘For the little one,’ he said, his voice a quiet kindness cutting through the noise. In that moment, the world narrowed to the lifeline he offered, and for the first time in days, I felt the knot in my chest loosen.
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