The cashier cleared her throat gently. “It’s not enough,” she said, not unkindly, not impatiently, just honestly, as if honesty alone might soften the blow.
Mara nodded. She had known that before she stepped into the store. She had known it while walking down the aisle, had known it when she lifted the can from the shelf anyway, because hope, even irrational hope, can be louder than logic when your baby is hungry.
Her throat tightened. She pressed Leo closer, his small cheek warm against her collarbone, and for a second she considered saying something, anything, an apology, an explanation, but she stopped herself, because she had learned the hard way that explanations rarely earn mercy, only attention, and attention in moments like this can feel unbearable.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, mostly to herself.
She reached for the formula, her fingers curling around the plastic lid as if she were saying goodbye to something alive, and turned slowly toward the shelf, already bracing herself for the familiar wave of shame that always followed moments like this, the internal monologue that told her she should have planned better, tried harder, chosen differently, even though she had been planning and trying and choosing survival every single day.
That was when a small voice spoke up behind her.
“Are you putting it back?”
