Dad came to pick up my son for the weekend. He opened the fridge and saw it was completely empty. Stunned, he asked, ‘You earn three

I picked up the box.

Then yogurt.

Then milk.

Then bananas.

Then apples.

Then chicken.

Then bread.

Then cheese.

Then vegetables.

Then snacks for Ben.

Every time I put something in the cart, a voice in my head whispered:

Too much.

Put it back.

You don’t need that.

You can’t afford it.

Dad noticed.

“Laya.”

I looked at him.

“You need to stop apologizing with your eyes.”

I swallowed.

“I’m not apologizing.”

“You are.”

He picked up a box of crackers and put it in the cart.

“You’re allowed to feed your child.”

At the checkout, the total climbed higher than I expected.

My stomach tightened.

Dad took out his card.

“Dad—”

“No.”

“I can—”

“No.”

He paid.

The cashier handed me the receipt.

I stared at it.

It was only groceries.

But somehow it felt like proof that I had failed.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder.

“Listen to me.”