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That’s when I saw her—a woman around my age with two children in tow. She wore a light jacket that didn’t quite match the weather. Her little boy clung to her hand, while her daughter stared at the apples in their cart as if they were a luxury. The mother’s eyes hinted at exhaustion held back by sheer determination. Her kids didn’t fidget or whine. They moved with a quiet carefulness that said they understood more than children should.
Her groceries were simple. Milk, bread, cereal, apples, canned items—essentials without a hint of indulgence. When I told her the total, she hesitated. Her hand slid into her coat pocket so slowly it was as though she was bracing for the effort.
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