That’s all I care about.
That Thursday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school and daycare, and we made a quick stop at the grocery store. We needed milk, cereal, apples, and diapers. I was hoping to get some peanut butter and broccoli too, but the usual budget stress came with us like an extra passenger.
Max had somehow wedged himself into the lower rack of the cart, narrating everything like a race car commentator.
Lily kept arguing about which bread rolls were “crisp enough,” like she’d suddenly developed a culinary degree.
Noah knocked over a display of granola bars and mumbled “my bad” before casually strolling away. And Grace, my little wild thing, was sitting in the front seat of the cart, singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” on a loop, crumbs from a mystery graham cracker falling onto her shirt.
“Guys,” I sighed, trying to steer the cart one-handed. “Can we please act like we’ve been in public before?”
“But Max said he was the cart dragon, Dad!” Lily shouted, offended on his behalf.
“Cart dragons don’t scream in the fruit aisle, hon,” I said, guiding them toward the apples.
That’s when I saw it.
Tucked between two bruised Gala apples was something gold and glittering.
