By the time we reached the checkout lane, my husband was red in the face, his voice echoing under the fluorescent lights, and a teenage cashier was pretending very hard not to make eye contact with any of us.
“You want my mom to pay for groceries?” Daniel snapped, loud enough for the woman unloading dog food in the next lane to turn her head.
I stood there with both hands resting lightly on the shopping cart handle and smiled the kind of smile people use when they’ve already crossed some invisible threshold and there’s no point in pretending they haven’t.
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