I was one loud beep away from falling apart in the bread aisle. After a 12-hour shift, my feet felt like they were made of cement, and the grocery store’s buzzing fluorescent lights only made the exhaustion sharper. I just needed the basics—bread, milk, cheese, something frozen I could call dinner. My daughters were home, wrapped in blankets and teenage moods, both fighting the same stubborn cold. Since the divorce, “normal life” had become noise, clutter, and chores that never, ever ended.
I spotted Rick, the store manager, near the entrance.
