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I’m Laura, forty years old, a grocery store cashier who long ago traded childhood dreams for steady paychecks and aching feet. Late one night, ten minutes before closing, a young mother stepped into my lane with a baby sleeping against her chest. Her cart held only essentials: bread, eggs, milk, and a single can of formula.
When I gave her the total, she counted her bills twice, then once more, panic tightening her expression. She was six dollars short. Softly, she asked if I could remove the formula.
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