“Morning, Dad,” I whispered.
Then the automatic doors opened, and another ordinary Friday began.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The morning rushed past.
Mrs. Kowalski bought cat food and prune juice.
The Jensen boys purchased energy drinks and
beef jerky.
Emma Tate’s mother came through with supplies for her daughter’s seventh birthday and showed me a photograph of a homemade unicorn cake.
One side was noticeably higher than the other.
“It’s beautiful,” I told her.
“It’s a complete mess,” she laughed.
“Then it’s a beautiful mess.”
By lunchtime, I’d eaten a few crackers.
By three, my feet hurt.
By five, the after-work crowd began filling the store.
Everyone seemed tired.
The lines grew longer.
People became impatient.
Then, at 6:40 that evening, a young woman came through the entrance.
I noticed her immediately.
Strangers stand out in Millbrook.
She looked exhausted.
Her long braids were secured with a simple elastic band. She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt and jeans faded almost white around the knees.
But what caught my attention was the black infant carrier strapped across her chest.
Inside were two babies.
Twins.
They appeared about
four or five months old.
One slept peacefully with his mouth open and a tiny hand resting against his mother’s shirt.
The other was crying as if his entire world had fallen apart.
The woman gently bounced as she walked through the aisles.
“I know, sweetheart. I know. Mama’s almost finished.”
She didn’t have a shopping cart.
She carried her few purchases in her hands.
When she joined my checkout line, four people were already waiting ahead of her.
I noticed her repeatedly examining the products she was holding.
Then she checked her phone.
Then looked at the products again.
Her lips moved as she silently calculated.
I knew that expression.
I’d worn it myself that very morning.
Directly behind her stood Dale Pruitt, who owned a small auto repair shop near the edge of town.
Dale wasn’t a cruel man.
But patience had never been one of his strengths.
He held a case of beer and a frozen pizza, and he looked increasingly annoyed by the baby’s cries.
Eventually, the woman reached my register.
“Good evening,” I said warmly. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She placed three items on the conveyor belt.
A gallon of milk.
