The supermarket smelled of industrial floor wax and faint baby powder. It was a Tuesday evening, the kind of ordinary hour where life usually feels static. My husband, Julian, walked a few steps ahead, his posture rigid, carrying the casual arrogance he always wore like a second skin.
We turned into the baby aisle, and that’s when I saw her.
She was young—barely twenty, I guessed—clutching a crying infant in one arm while fumbling through a worn wallet with the other. On the conveyor belt of a nearby self-checkout sat two cans of formula and a small pack of wipes.
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