Then one Friday evening, a woman walked into my checkout line carrying two tiny babies.
One was sleeping. The other was screaming.
She looked exhausted, her eyes red.
She put milk, formula, and diapers on the belt.
“$67.18.”
I’d stopped expecting my life to suddenly change.
She tapped her card.
Declined.
“Oh.”
She tried again.
Declined.
She looked exhausted.
Someone behind her sighed loudly.
The woman’s face reddened. “I’m sorry. Can you take the diapers off?”
I checked the screen. “You’re short $8.42.”
“I know. Just take them off.”
The crying baby got louder.
Declined.
I looked at her face and suddenly thought of my mother.
I pulled out my own card.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Paying the difference.”
“No. Please, you don’t have to.”
You’re short $8.42.
“It’s eight dollars.”
“Eight dollars matters.”
“I know.”
I tapped my card.
Approved.
Eight dollars matters.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay you back.”
“You don’t have to. Just take your groceries.”
“You have no idea what this means to me today.”
“It’s okay.”
She looked at my name tag. “Rachel?”
