I was standing at the grocery store checkout, my six-month-old granddaughter, Lily, pressed tightly against my chest, when the machine beeped sharply, cutting through the air like a knife. Declined. My heart sank immediately into my stomach. I held the edge of the counter, my hands trembling, feeling heat rise to my face. The cashier tried again. Another beep. Declined. My stomach twisted. Behind me, impatience grew like wildfire. Someone laughed quietly but harshly. Another muttered, “People shouldn’t have kids if they can’t afford them.” A man let out a

I’m a 62-year-old literature teacher, and for almost four decades my life has followed the same quiet rhythm. Hall duty in the mornings. Shakespeare before lunch. Lukewarm tea that I always forget on my desk. Essays that somehow multiply overnight like they’re breeding when the lights go off. December is usually my favorite month. Not because I expect magic, but because even the hardest teenagers soften a little when the holidays come close. They smile more. They argue less. The hallways feel warmer, even when the air outside is sharp