I expected a quick grocery run with my fussy one-year-old. Then a teenager mocked his cries, stepped closer to our cart, and did something that left the entire aisle silent.
My name is Amber, and Saturday grocery runs had become one of those routines I barely thought about anymore.
Before Mason was born, I could get through the supermarket in half an hour. I had a list, a route, and enough patience to compare prices without feeling rushed.
Motherhood had changed that.
Now every trip depended on the mood of a one-year-old.
That Saturday, Mason was buckled into the little seat built into the front of the cart.
He had been fussy almost from the moment we walked through the automatic doors.
He was teething, tired, and crying on and off no matter what I tried.
I handed him his favorite toy.
He threw it onto the floor.
I picked it up, wiped it on my shirt, and handed it back.
