She was eighty six and she still refused to let anyone else buy her groceries. That Saturday the store was full and she only had five things, but her hands were shaking and the wallet would not surface in her bag. The woman behind us sighed at the ceiling, said come on, then pushed her loaded trolley forward and told my mother that if she was too old to manage shopping she should stay home. People turned. When I spoke she rolled her eyes and said she was only saying what everyone was thinking. Then my mother found the wallet, held out her card, and the woman laughed and asked whether we were all really standing there for this.

That was when the cashier looked up. She was about fifty five, and something in my mother’s face stopped her completely. She asked her name. Adeline, my mother said. The register clicked shut. The belt went dead. Nobody leaves, she said, and then she called the manager over and whispered, and he came back with a cardboard box from the office.