he wanted to see us.
I keep that photograph by my register because of something he used to tell me.
Whenever I complained that life wasn’t fair, he would crouch beside me and say,
“Rae-bug, you can’t make the whole world right. But you can make the next ten minutes better for somebody.”
Every morning, before helping my first customer, I touch the photograph.
It’s a habit I’ve kept for six years.
“Morning, Dad,” I whispered.
Then the automatic doors opened, and another ordinary Friday began.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The morning rushed past.
Mrs. Kowalski bought cat food and prune juice.
The Jensen boys purchased energy drinks and beef jerky.
Emma Tate’s mother came through with supplies for her daughter’s seventh birthday and showed me a photograph of a homemade unicorn cake.
One side was noticeably higher than the other.
“It’s beautiful,” I told her.
“It’s a complete mess,” she laughed.
“Then it’s a beautiful mess.”
By lunchtime, I’d eaten a few crackers.
By three, my feet hurt.
By five, the after-work crowd began filling the store.
Everyone seemed tired.
The lines grew longer.
People became impatient.
Then, at 6:40 that evening, a young woman came through the entrance.
I noticed her immediately.
Strangers stand out in Millbrook.
She looked exhausted.
Her long braids were secured with a simple elastic band. She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt and jeans faded almost white around the knees.
But what caught my attention was the black infant carrier strapped across her chest.
Inside were two babies.
Twins.
They appeared about four or five months old.
One slept peacefully with his mouth open and a tiny hand resting against his mother’s shirt.
The other was crying as if his entire world had fallen apart.
The woman gently bounced as she walked through the aisles.
“I know, sweetheart. I know. Mama’s almost finished.”
