My days run on routines: balancing a job at the nearby hardware store with my responsibilities at home.
Bills, groceries, fixing the leaky roof.
I’m used to the weight of small worries, the quiet grind that doesn’t change.
Yet that moment in the grocery line sliced through my ordinary, shaking loose questions about who gets dismissed or belittled.
The power dynamic was clear—the cashier had the authority to control the pace, to mock without fear of consequence.
The grocery store manager, a stern woman who rounds on employees now and then, watches mostly for theft or messes, not for how staff treat customers.
The old woman, fragile and hushed, held no leverage but maybe carried burdens far heavier than coins.
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