Her shoulders dropped.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
“How much are you short?” I asked quietly.
“Six dollars,” she said. “I’m sorry. Can you take off the formula? I’ll just get the rest.”
Her eyes stayed locked on the can like looking at me would make it worse. The baby shifted slightly, made a soft sound, then settled again.
I’d seen people put items back a hundred times. Steaks. Snacks. Even medicine. But formula hit different.
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the crumpled bills I’d earned in tips that day. Mostly ones. I peeled off six dollars and slid them toward the register.
“I’ve got it.”
Her head snapped up. “No, you don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to.”
“I can pay you back,” she rushed. “Next time I come in, I—”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said. “Take the formula. Go home.”
Her eyes filled instantly. “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea.”
She hugged the baby tighter, grabbed her bag, and walked out as the doors slid open and cold air rushed in. Then she was gone.
I dropped the money into the till, finished closing, clocked out, and went home. By the time I heated leftovers and crawled into bed, it already felt like a small moment in a long shift. Six dollars. No big deal.
The next morning, the store was slammed. Morning rush. Coffee. Cereal. Energy drinks. I tied my apron and started scanning like always.
Then the loudspeaker crackled.
“Amelia to the manager’s office. Amelia, please.”
Never what you want to hear.
As I walked back, my mind replayed the night before. The woman. The money. The cameras overhead.
My manager had the security footage paused on his screen when I walked in. Me. The register. The baby.
“Did you cover part of a customer’s groceries last night?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It was my money. I know it’s probably against policy.”
He held up a hand. “That’s not why I called you in.”
He opened a drawer and slid a white envelope across the desk.
“She came back this morning. Asked me to give you this.”
My name was written on the front.
I went back to my register, the envelope heavy in my apron pocket. When my shift ended, I went straight to my car and opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
She thanked me for the money, but more than that, for not making her feel ashamed. She wrote about counting every dollar, about wanting to disappear when she realized she was short.
Then the letter shifted.
She wrote that she had been adopted as a baby. That after having her own child, she started searching for answers. Records. Names.
Mine.
And our biological mother’s.
Scarlett.My mom.
She’d died five years earlier. I’d always known there was another child before me, one my mother gave up when she was young and alone. We never talked about it much. It sat between us like something fragile.
The letter ended with one line that made my hands shake.
“My sister.”
She left her number.
I didn’t think. I called.
We met the next day at a café. She walked in with the same tired eyes, the same baby. We hugged awkwardly, then sat down.
“This is Elijah,” she said softly. “Your nephew.”
The word felt strange. And right.
We talked for hours. About our mother. About the past. About how life twists in ways no one plans.Weeks later, a DNA test confirmed it. Full siblings.
Now she comes into the store sometimes. Elijah reaches for me when he sees me. I keep his picture in my locker.
I went to work thinking I was just a cashier.
I walked out with a sister and a family I never knew I had.
All because someone was six dollars short one night.