A Question for Our Time

a question for our time

Handing the cashier my card to pay, I try to make eye contact and offer a smile. She avoids my look, glances down at my hugely pregnant belly, and mumbles, “Mmm hmm” in response. I take the hint and move along; no worries on my part.

The next customer steps up to pay– it is a grandmother, loudly giving orders to her troops, which happen to be a boy of about 5 years old and another of 2, along with a silent grandfather in tow.

The 20-something cashier perks up in response to the grandmother’s high energy and I overhear snippets of their conversation as I am packing up my groceries–

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