Then we could pay and go home.
By the time I reached the dairy section, Mason had worked himself into another miserable little fit.
His cheeks were pink, and tears clung to his eyelashes.
“I know, sweetheart,” I told him quietly.
I rubbed his back.
“We’re almost finished.”
That was when I heard laughter.
At first, I didn’t realize it had anything to do with us.
A teenage boy, maybe 16, was standing near the dairy section with his friends, and he started loudly mimicking Mason’s crying in an exaggerated, whiny voice for his friends to enjoy.
His friends laughed.
I looked over.
The boy was watching Mason.
There was no mistaking it.
He pulled a dramatic face and made another fake crying noise.
One of the boys beside him nearly doubled over laughing.
My first instinct was irritation.
My second was to ignore them.
Teenagers could be immature.
I remembered being 16.
