There was no time left.

I had $53 to my name. That was everything. Fourteen months of scraping by since the divorce, and that number sat in my account like some cruel joke.

That afternoon, I took my son to the grocery store. I needed to stretch what little we had into something that resembled meals—pasta, eggs, bread, peanut butter. The kind of shopping where you silently calculate every item and quietly put things back when the total climbs too high.

We were standing in line when the woman ahead of me tried to pay.

She looked young—mid-20s, maybe. A baby rested on her hip, a diaper bag slipping off her shoulder, her hair barely held together in a loose clip. The baby was chewing on the collar of her sweater.

The cashier glanced at the screen. “$47.”

The woman swiped her card.

Declined.

She swallowed hard and tried again.

Declined.

One more time.

Declined.

That awful beep cut through the air again and again.

The cashier exhaled sharply. “Ma’am, if you can’t pay, you need to step aside.”

The woman’s face flushed red. “I’m sorry. I thought there was enough. I just got paid yesterday. I don’t know why it’s—”

“STEP ASIDE IF YOU CAN’T PAY,” the cashier snapped, louder this time.

Murmurs spread through the line, as if people had been waiting for permission.

“Pathetic.”

“Why have kids if you’re broke?”

The woman lowered her gaze to her baby and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And something inside me broke open.