The woman shot him a look. “Not everyone is a thief.”
He pointed at the notebook. “Then why are there notes like that?”
I didn’t answer right away because the truth is, I understood him.
I did.
I grew up in a house where you didn’t waste.
You didn’t ask.
You didn’t show weakness.
And when you did help someone, you did it quietly, like it was your own business and nobody else’s.
But I also understood something else.
Fear can look like principles when it’s dressed up nice.
And hunger doesn’t care about your principles.
I looked at him and said, “If you’re worried about somebody taking too much—stand here for ten minutes. Watch faces. Not hands. You’ll learn something.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I don’t have time to stand guard at a grocery store.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “But don’t pretend you’re the only one with a schedule.”
The woman’s expression softened. “We left two boxes of wipes,” she said quietly. “We can afford it.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Congrats. You want a medal?”
Her cheeks flamed. “Why are you like this?”