I was bone-tired and one wrong beep away from crying in the bread aisle.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming a little too loudly, tinting everything in a dull yellow haze that made the world feel heavier than it already was. My feet throbbed after a 12-hour shift, the kind of ache that didn’t dissolve with a bath or a cup of tea. It settled into the bones and whispered that being 43 wasn’t as young as it once felt.

All I wanted was to grab bread, milk, cheese, something frozen for dinner, and get home to my daughters, both sniffling through colds while juggling homework and the quiet unraveling that comes after a divorce.

Near the entrance, I spotted Rick, the store manager. He waved, and I forced a half-smile.

“How’s Glenda doing?” I asked.

His face brightened instantly. “She’s much better, Ariel. She still says you’ve got magic hands.”“She just liked the pudding I brought.” I laughed.

“And the girls?” he asked.

“Still fighting over who feeds the cat. Celia’s growing a science project somewhere in her closet, and Ara’s upset her team didn’t make the finals. So… we’re hanging in there.”

He gave a playful salute and went back to work. I pushed my cart down the first aisle, finally letting myself exhale.

At the express lane stood an older man, small and slightly hunched in a faded jacket. His hands trembled as he set down a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a carton of milk — the kind of groceries people buy when every cent has a purpose.