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For six months, my mornings began the same way: alone, clutching my son Luke’s hoodie and breathing in the scent that still felt like him. He was seven when a sudden accident took his life, and in one moment, the world I knew ended. Grief hollowed out our home, and my marriage didn’t survive it. My husband left, not out of cruelty, but because he couldn’t bear watching me fall apart. Friends faded, family gatherings felt unbearable, and even the sound of a baby crying could undo me. I learned how isolating loss could be, how it reshapes everything, leaving you unsure whether life will ever feel whole again.
One afternoon, forced by an empty fridge, I went to the grocery store. The noise and crowds overwhelmed me, and I just wanted to escape. In the checkout line, I noticed a young mother struggling to pay for a single can of baby formula. She was juggling three children, counting coins with shaking hands while strangers behind her whispered harsh judgments. I watched her shrink under their words, and something inside me cracked open. Before I could overthink it, I stepped forward and paid for the formula. It took seconds, but the relief and gratitude in her eyes stayed with me long after she left.
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