The Morning Everything Changed

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead as I restocked shelves at 5 AM. This was my routine now—the early morning shift that let me be home when my daughter woke up. Single parenthood had taught me to survive on coffee and determination.

My daughter Emma was seven, bright and resilient in ways that broke my heart. After the divorce two years ago, we’d moved to this small town for a fresh start. The pay wasn’t great, but the rent was manageable, and Emma loved her school.

That Tuesday morning, as I arranged cans in perfect rows, I heard raised voices near the entrance. Our night manager was talking to someone, his tone concerned but firm.

“Ma’am, we’re not open yet. You’ll need to wait outside.”

I glanced over and saw a woman, probably in her sixties, swaying slightly. Her coat was too thin for February, and she clutched a small notepad.

“I just need… I can’t remember…” Her voice trailed off, confused.

Something in my chest tightened. I walked over.

“Is everything okay?” I asked gently.

She looked at me with clouded eyes. “I need to get groceries. My grandson is coming for breakfast. He loves pancakes.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I have a list somewhere.”

The manager whispered to me, “I think she’s confused. Should I call someone?”

I looked at her shaking hands, her worn shoes. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

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