I only went into that corner store because my baby was crying from hunger. I had $1.67, and eggs were $4.29. Desperate, I slipped a carton into my coat. The cashier saw but didn’t yell—just asked calmly, “You wanna pay for those?” I panicked and ran.
A patrol car stopped me nearby. One officer, young and kind, asked if I had kids. I nodded, speechless. He walked off with his partner. I expected handcuffs.
Instead, they returned with groceries—eggs, bread, peanut butter, even juice boxes. “We’re not here to punish people trying to feed their families,” he said. I cried right there.
Two days later, a note appeared under my door: “We saw what happened. You’re not the only one.” No name. Just that. I felt exposed—and not alone.
Then came a knock. No one there. Just a bag: soup, pasta, a smiley face drawn on the front. That night, we had warm soup and crackers. My kids clapped. For the first time in weeks, I felt hope.
The next morning, I bundled up my youngest and walked to the community center. I needed work—something steady. I couldn’t live off kindness forever. It was time to rebuild.
