I Paid for a Struggling Grandma at the Grocery Store – Three Days Later, the Clerk Came to My Door with Her Final Request

My phone buzzed on the counter: rent reminder, late electric notice, a text from my boss asking if I could cover another shift.

I opened the fridge.

No milk.

Checked the bread box.

One sad heel.

“Of course,” I muttered.

“I’m going to the store,” I called out. “Nobody open the door. Nobody touch the stove.

Nobody jump off anything.”

“Can we come?” Emma asked, already halfway to the door.

“Not this time, baby. I’ll be 10 minutes.”

I grabbed my keys and walked to the grocery store around the corner. Fluorescent lights, too-cold air, carts clanking.

I grabbed the cheapest loaf of bread and a gallon of milk and headed for the front.

Every line was long.

I picked the shortest and got behind a couple arguing about which chips to get.

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