I’m 40 years old, and I’ve been a grocery store cashier for most of my adult life.

It’s not the kind of job people dream about when they’re young, but it’s honest work. It pays the rent on my small apartment, keeps my fridge stocked, and gives my days a routine I’ve learned to lean on. After years behind the register, you develop a strange skill—you learn how to read people without them saying a word.

Some customers tap their cards without looking up, already mentally somewhere else. Some linger, clearly craving conversation. And some parents smile at their kids while silently doing math in their heads, hoping the total won’t cross a line they can’t afford.

That night, it was close to 11 p.m. We were minutes from closing. My feet ached, my back was stiff, and I was already picturing the quiet walk home. That’s when I saw her approach my register.

She couldn’t have been more than late twenties or early thirties. She held a baby against her chest, the child fast asleep, cheek pressed into her shoulder. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, her clothes wrinkled, and the exhaustion on her face wasn’t the kind one night’s sleep could fix.

Her cart was almost empty.