“Having a baby doesn’t make you more important than everyone else,” the woman said, arms crossed.
Nobody in that line — twelve, maybe fifteen people close enough to hear every word — said a thing. A man stared at his phone. Two women stared at the door.
The family restroom finally opened. A man walked out. Lana stepped toward it — and the woman shot her arm straight across the doorway, hand already on the handle. “No. I’m next.”
Micah’s face had gone red from screaming. Lana was swaying on her feet, the way you do after weeks of no real sleep, running purely on what’s left. “Please,” she said, barely audible. “He’s sitting in a dirty diaper.”
For one second, I thought somebody in that line would finally speak up. Nobody did. The woman pushed the door open and disappeared inside.
I’ve broken up fights in this store. I’ve called the sheriff twice. I’ve had coffee thrown at me over parking spaces. I had never once come out from behind that counter over a restroom line — until that moment.
I reached under my register and pulled out a blue plastic box. Several people turned, expecting me to knock on that restroom door. I didn’t. I walked straight past it, toward Lana against the wall, bouncing her son with tears gathering in her eyes.
“Come with me,” I said.
She stared at the box. “What?”
“I’ve got somewhere you can change him.”
