At 28, I’m seven months pregnant and managing things alone. The baby’s father left the very night I told him, mumbling he “wasn’t ready.” It’s just Bean (my name for the baby growing inside me), my ancient, rattling Corolla, and I.
I put in hours at the local pharmacy, but every cent I make disappears quickly to bills, rent, fuel, and doctor visits. My grocery trips are cautious—fruit is gone, juice is a luxury, and oatmeal becomes the new cereal.
On Tuesday, while ticking off my reduced list, I heard voices by the entrance. Moving closer, I saw a man in his mid-seventies, wearing a worn shirt and a shoe with a hole, at the checkout. In his cart: basics like milk, bread, eggs, a can of soup—and one bag of dog food. Pressed against his chest was a little terrier.
The cashier rescanned items, her hands shaking. The line simmered with impatience.
“ARE WE GONNA STAND HERE ALL DAY?” came a shout.
A woman yelled, “JUST HURRY UP ALREADY.” The old man fumbled, removing groceries to make his $15.50 stretch far enough.
As tension spiked, a security guard appeared: “SIR, NO DOGS ALLOWED!! EITHER THE BAG OR THE DOG GOES!”
The man hugged the terrier tightly, voice wavering: “She’s all I have. Please… JUST LEAVE THE DOG FOOD.”
Something broke inside me. I stepped forward.
“Put it all on me,” I told the cashier.
He looked over, tears gathering. “Miss… I can’t accept this.”
“Yes, you can,” I said, hand resting on my belly. “One day, Bean and I might need the same.”
He gazed at me before nodding. Grateful, he accepted the groceries, thanking me several times. My car’s fuel was low, but my spirit felt lifted.
The next morning, a noise on my porch startled me awake. I figured it was the neighbor’s cat—UNTIL I OPENED THE DOOR AND FROZE.
