Two days before payday, I stood inside the fluorescent-lit grocery store, feeling like the weight of the world was perched on my shoulder — and truthfully, most of it was. My left hip throbbed from holding Owen for too long, my bank account was sitting at a fragile $27.14, and the only thing I wanted from the universe was just five minutes of peace.
Five minutes without a tantrum, without anxiety spiraling through my chest, without any new disaster waiting to trip me up. But Owen — my bright-eyed, curly-haired tornado of a three-year-old — had a completely different agenda.
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He wriggled like a determined eel, twisting in my arms until he could stretch toward the candy display beside the register. His small fingers hovered dangerously close to a pack of neon-colored sour worms. I whispered, “No, buddy,” in that…