Then she would remember a tiny hand tapping on a counter.
A child asking with dignity instead of begging.
A hug that smelled first like grease and fear, then later like soap and safety.
And she would think of the thing her mother had tried to teach her back when they had almost nothing and still found ways to offer each other hope.
You are not broke.
You are resourceful.
The line had meant survival then.
Now it meant something wider.
You are not empty just because life took things.
You are not finished because somebody small and cruel had power over a paycheck.
You are not foolish for caring.
The world may not clap for mercy.
It may charge you for it.
Humiliate you for it.
Fire you for it under fluorescent lights while strangers pretend not to hear.
Do it anyway when you can.
Not because it always comes back.
