I’m Laura. I’m 40 years old, and I work as a cashier in a small neighborhood grocery store.
It’s not what I dreamed of when I was a kid. I didn’t imagine standing behind a register all day, smiling at strangers, scanning groceries, and counting coins. But it pays the bills. Mostly. And after a while, you get used to it.
When you stand behind a register long enough, you learn how to read people without them saying much.
You can spot the rushed ones who tap their phones and sigh.
The lonely ones who want to talk just a little too long.
And the parents—the ones who smile at their kids while their eyes are silently doing math, adding and subtracting, praying the total won’t be too high.
That night, it was almost 11 p.m. We were ten minutes from closing.
The store was half-dark. Some aisle lights were already off. The hum of the refrigerators was louder than the soft music playing overhead. My feet ached, my back was stiff, and my patience was thin. I was already planning the sad snack I’d eat before bed—probably crackers and peanut butter.
Then she stepped into my lane.
She looked like she was in her early 30s. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that had clearly survived a long day.
She wore a faded hoodie that had been washed a hundred times, cheap leggings, and old sneakers. A baby was strapped to her chest in a soft wrap, his cheek pressed against her collarbone, fast asleep.
She gave me a tired but polite smile.
“Hey,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. “You’re our last customer. Lucky you.”
She gave a weak laugh. “Lucky is not the word I’d use. But we made it.”
She unloaded her cart. It didn’t take long.
Bread.
Eggs.
A half-gallon of milk.
And one large can of baby formula.
No snacks. No extras. Just the basics.
I scanned each item. Beep. Beep. Beep.
When I hit the total, I said, “That’ll be $32.47.”
She opened her wallet. Inside was a thin stack of bills. I watched her count them, her lips moving silently. Her forehead wrinkled. She checked another pocket. Then a small zipper pouch. Then the back of her wallet, like money might magically appear if she looked hard enough.
Her shoulders dropped.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
“How much are you short?” I asked gently.
“Six dollars,” she said, not looking at me. “I’m really sorry. Can you cancel the formula? I’ll just take the rest.”
Her eyes stayed locked on the can of formula, like she couldn’t bear to see my reaction. The baby shifted, made a tiny sound, then settled again.
I’ve seen people put things back plenty of times. Steaks. Chips. Cookies. Even medicine.
But baby formula? That wasn’t something you could just skip.
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out my tips from the day. Wrinkled bills. Mostly ones. I peeled off six dollars and slid them toward the register.
“I’ve got it.”
Her head snapped up. “What? No, no, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” I said. “I want to. Keep the formula.”
“I can pay you back,” she rushed out. “Next time I—”
“You don’t have to,” I said softly. “Really. Just take your groceries. Go home. Sleep if you can.”
Her eyes filled with tears so fast it startled me.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking. “You have no idea.”
She hugged the baby closer, wiped her face with her sleeve, grabbed her bags, and walked toward the doors. The automatic doors slid open, cold air rushed in, and then she was gone.
I dropped my six dollars into the till, finished closing, clocked out, and went home. By the time I reheated leftovers and crawled into bed, it already felt like a tiny moment in a long shift.
Six bucks. Whatever.
Then came the next morning.
The store was slammed. Morning rush. People grabbing coffee, cereal, and way too many energy drinks. I clocked in, tied my apron, and took my place at register three.
Scan. Beep. Bag. Smile.
“Good morning.”
“Rewards card?”
“Paper or plastic?”
I was halfway through ringing up a guy with a cart full of junk food when the loudspeaker crackled.
“Laura to the manager’s office. Laura, please come to the manager’s office. It’s urgent.”
The customer smirked. “Uh oh. You’re in trouble.”
“Story of my life,” I joked weakly.
My stomach dropped.
I finished the order, called a coworker to cover my lane, and walked toward the back. With every step, my brain replayed the night before. Her face. My money on the counter. The security camera above my register.
I knocked on the office door.
“Come in,” my manager said.
He sat behind his desk, glasses on, staring at his computer. He looked up when I entered.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah. Close the door and have a seat.”
Never what you want to hear at work.
I sat down, my face burning. He clicked something on his computer, then turned the screen toward me.
Grainy security footage played. My register. The woman. The baby. Me pulling money from my pocket and sliding it across the counter.
He paused the video.
“Did you cover part of a customer’s groceries last night?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “She was short, and it was baby formula. It was my money, not the store’s. I know it’s probably against policy, and I’m sorry, I just—”
He raised his hand.
“I’m not mad,” he said. “And that’s not why I called you in.”
“Oh.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a plain white envelope. He placed it on the desk between us.
“This was left for you this morning. She came back and asked me to give it to you.”
My name was written neatly on the front: Laura.
“You didn’t read it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not my business.”
“Am I in trouble?” I asked again.
“Just don’t make a habit of paying out of your own pocket,” he said. Then softer, “But it was a kind thing you did.”
That hit harder than any warning.
I tucked the envelope into my apron and went back to work. All shift, I felt it against my hip. By the time I clocked out, my hands were shaking.
I sat in my car and opened it.
Inside was a letter.
“Dear Laura,” it began. “I’m the woman you helped last night with the baby and the formula.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she wrote. “Not just for the six dollars, but for how you treated me. You didn’t make me feel stupid or ashamed. You just helped.”
She wrote about skipping dinner. About doing math in her head. About wanting to disappear.
Then the letter changed.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” she wrote. “I was adopted as a baby.”
My heart pounded.
She wrote about searching for answers after her son was born. About records. About names. About one name appearing again and again.
“Laura,” she wrote.
“And our biological mother. Mary.”
My mom’s name.
“Our biological mother died a few years ago,” she wrote. “I’m sorry if this is how you’re finding out.”
Then came the words that stopped me cold.
“When I saw your name tag last night,” she wrote, “I realized you were the person from the records. The one connected to Mary. My sister.”
At the bottom was a number.
“Thank you, big sister.”
I called her.
We met the next day at a café.
“This is Eli,” she said. “Your nephew.”
Weeks later, a DNA test confirmed it.
Now they visit me at the store. Eli reaches for 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 nephew I never knew I had.
All because one night, someone was six dollars short.