I Paid for a Poor Mans Groceries – and Noticed He Was a Carbon Copy of My Late Husband!

I hadn’t shopped in a while. The fridge was nearly empty, save for condiments and spoiled milk. I pushed a cart slowly, stiff joints, wandering mind, when I heard a man’s voice—strained but gentle, trying not to break.

“I promise, Mark,” he said softly. “Daddy will get you something special next time.”

A child’s voice, trembling with tears, replied, “You said Mommy would come back. How long is she with the angel?”

My hands froze on the cart handle. Grief recognizes grief instantly. I turned the corner and saw him kneeling on the linoleum floor before three children—two boys and a little girl. He held the youngest close, whispering reassurances that sounded rehearsed, tired, but sincere.

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