I (49M) was working a late shift at the gas station, the kind where the clock seems frozen and the coffee tastes like cardboard.
Around 11:30 p.m., a woman came in carrying a sleeping child on her shoulder. Her eyes looked hollow — the kind of tired you don’t fix with sleep.
She grabbed a small carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and a pack of diapers.
When I rang it up, she dug through her purse, then whispered, “I’m short by four dollars. Can I—can I put the diapers back?”
Before I could even think, I said, “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
She looked at me like she didn’t understand.
“It’s late,” I said softly. “Just get home safe, okay?”
She nodded, tears in her eyes, and hurried out into the night.
The following week, my manager called me into his office.
“Did you cover someone’s groceries last Friday?” he asked.
My stomach dropped. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I paid—”
He shook his head and handed me an envelope.
“No. This came for you this morning.”
I opened it, read the words once, then twice. And my hands started to shake.
Credit goes original owner