Stacks of cereal boxes grinned at me in bright colors. Rows of yogurt with foil lids glinted under fluorescent lights. The produce section looked like a painting—apples and oranges and grapes piled high like abundance was a given, not a miracle.
A mom in workout clothes argued with her toddler about which snack to buy “this time” because “you already had that last week.” A teenage boy tossed frozen pizzas into a cart like frisbees while his dad scrolled on his phone.
I pushed my cart past them, feeling like an intruder.
I started slowly. Bread. Eggs. Milk. Rice. Chicken. Apples. Bananas. A jar of peanut butter. Pasta. Canned tomatoes. Yogurt with cartoon cows. Ben’s asteroid-shaped cereal. I added vegetables—the kind you have to wash and chop, the kind that feel like hope because you expect them to last more than one day.
Every time I placed something in the cart, a voice in my head whispered, Too much. You’re being greedy. You don’t deserve this. Put it back.
But louder than that, for the first time, was another voice. Dad’s voice in the kitchen: A man who feeds others never lets his family starve.
At the checkout, the cashier scanned each item. The total climbed higher and higher. My stomach twisted, even though I knew this wasn’t my account for once.
When I slid Dad’s card into the reader and it beeped “Approved,” the relief that washed through me felt almost indecent.
Back home, the front door was propped open. I could hear laughter from the kitchen—Ben’s high-pitched giggles and Dad’s low, rumbly chuckle.
When I stepped in, Dad was already unloading bags from his own car. I hadn’t even noticed him leave to go to the store himself. He’d lined up groceries on the counter: milk, fresh fruit, blocks of cheese, a giant box of cereal, frozen vegetables, a pack of chicken, even a tub of ice cream sweating on the counter.
He looked up when he saw me come in with my own bags.
“Good,” he said simply. “We’ll stock this place properly.”
