The Woman in the Checkout Line
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I walked into work expecting another long shift on sore feet and swollen ankles, counting down the minutes until I could go home. Instead, I found myself caught in a confrontation that unraveled a secret no one saw coming, least of all me.
The tiny onesie in my hands still smelled of clearance bin detergent, but I folded it as if it were made of silk. My couch had a permanent dent shaped like me these days, and I’d stopped fighting it. Seven months of pregnancy will do that to a girl.
My name’s Emma. I’m 23. I ring up groceries five evenings a week at the supermarket, and I’m building a life one shift at a time.
I folded it as if it were made of silk.
On the fridge, our little budget notebook sat pinned under a magnet, my sonogram taped right beside it. Jake’s handwriting filled the left column. Mine filled the right.
I heard my boyfriend come out of the bedroom before I saw him.
