My name is Lily. I’m twenty-nine, raising three children on my own, and most days feel like a tightrope walk—juggling noise, exhaustion, love, and numbers that never quite add up.
One morning, after a night that barely counted as sleep, I headed to the small grocery store down the block with just enough cash for the basics. Bread. Milk.
Nothing more. I kept checking the time, anxious to get back before the next meltdown or missed school call.
The store was packed and restless, the kind of place where tension hums between strangers.When I reached the checkout, an elderly woman stood in front of me, slowly emptying her purse onto the counter. Coins rolled beneath her shaking fingers.
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