I’m Laura, forty, a grocery store cashier, used to long shifts, sore feet, and trading childhood dreams for steady paychecks. One late night, ten minutes before closing, a young mother walked into my lane, a baby asleep against her chest. Her cart was barebones—bread, eggs, milk, and one can of formula.
When I totaled her groceries, she counted her money over and over. She was six dollars short. Quietly, she asked me to remove the formula. Something inside me refused. I dug into my tips, found six crumpled dollars, and covered it.
She tried to protest, but I told her to go home and rest. That night, it felt like a small kindness—just a blip in an ordinary shift. The next morning, my manager called me in. My stomach sank when he showed me the security footage—but instead of a warning, he handed me a white envelope.
Continue reading on the next page…