Teacher Sends Black Girl Home Without Pants, Regrets it After Finding Out her dad is Shaq O’Neal!
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A Veteran’s Redemption
Introduction: On a chilly December evening in Chicago, a homeless veteran named Frank Dawson found himself struggling to afford basic groceries. Little did he know that a chance encounter with basketball legend Michael Jordan would not only change his circumstances but also restore his faith in humanity. This heartwarming story highlights the power of kindness and the impact one person can have on another’s life.
Michael Jordan stepped into a small supermarket in Chicago on a chilly December evening. The automatic doors slid open, revealing his tall figure, his thick coat embracing his sturdy frame. The air inside was slightly warmer than the biting cold of the streets, yet it still carried a faint gloominess of the year’s end. Under the white lights shining down on the neatly arranged shelves, a few people were quietly picking out groceries, the soft clattering of shopping carts echoing on the cold tiled floor.
Jordan walked slowly, his strides unhurried yet exuding the steady presence of a legend. He was not the type to seek attention, but wherever he appeared, there were always eyes following him—sometimes in admiration, sometimes simply because his name was too familiar to everyone. A young couple spotted him; the husband whispered something to his wife, who looked up, eyes widening in surprise, before they turned back to their shopping, not daring to approach. A boy of about ten, wearing a gray hoodie, tugged at his mother’s hand and whispered something, only to shrink back when his mother shook her head.
In this place, people respected each other’s privacy, though deep down, they couldn’t help but feel a little excitement at encountering a legend right before their eyes. The supermarket had a certain quietness to it, with only the soft sound of music playing from the ceiling speakers. It was an instrumental piece, a slow melody blending into the stillness of the place.
Jordan’s gaze swept over the shelves, not because he needed to buy anything, but because he enjoyed observing. He had been to so many places, walked through legendary basketball courts, and lived under dazzling spotlights. Yet sometimes, moments as simple as this made him feel closer to life. Near the produce section, an elderly woman was selecting potatoes, her thin hands gently squeezing each one to check for freshness. A supermarket employee stood nearby, glancing at his watch as if eager for time to pass quickly so his shift would end.
At the meat counter, a middle-aged man in a black beanie was asking for prices, his voice hoarse from the cold. A few young people gathered around the fast-food section, debating which pizza to choose for dinner. None of them seemed to pay much attention to Michael Jordan, or perhaps they recognized him but didn’t want to make it too obvious.
Jordan continued walking toward the checkout counter. There, an old man with white hair stood, his back slightly hunched, his figure thin yet still carrying the resilience of someone who had been through much. He wore a worn-out coat, and the shoes on his feet had faded with time. On the counter were a few simple items: a loaf of bread, a small carton of milk, and a few packs of cheap instant noodles. The old man slowly reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a handful of small bills and coins—wrinkled notes and tiny coins resting in his calloused hands. He began counting one by one, his fingers trembling slightly, whether from the cold or the fatigue of old age.
The atmosphere suddenly grew even quieter. The cashier, a young woman with curly blonde hair, crossed her arms and waited with an impatient expression. When the old man reached his last coin, a brief silence hung in the air. The number on the cash register screen read $17.85. The old man paused, rechecking the money in his hand, then furrowed his brow slightly. He was $2 short.
Michael Jordan had been watching everything from a distance, a feeling he couldn’t quite name creeping into his heart as he witnessed the scene. A man who had once fought for his country, who had lived through the harshest years of war, was now struggling over $2 in a small supermarket in the middle of a grand city. He had seen many stories of hardship, but this moment still made his heart ache.
The cashier sighed, shaking her head before folding her arms across her chest. Around them, a few other customers watched quietly, some turning away as if they didn’t want to get involved. No one said anything—just an awkward sense of waiting. The old man looked up, his eyes showing hesitation. He took a deep breath, then nodded slightly, as if telling himself that it was all right. He reached out, about to remove an item to adjust his total, but before he could do so, the cashier spoke up, her voice breaking the stillness of the moment.
“Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the years. He began to count, his voice murmuring softly, a habit deeply ingrained in him. When he reached the last bill, he suddenly stopped. His total was $2 short compared to the amount displayed on the cashier screen.
Frank looked up, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, nor did he want to become the center of attention. He glanced back at the items on the counter, wondering which one he should put back to match the money he had. He reached out to take the carton of milk, but at that moment, the voice of the cashier rang out, followed by a heavy silence that seemed to blanket the entire checkout line.
The cashier sighed, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes clearly showing irritation. She looked at the old man with impatience, then glanced quickly at the checkout screen, as if she didn’t want to waste any more time on this situation. The atmosphere around them gradually grew silent, and a few customers nearby began to take notice. A middle-aged woman pushing a shopping cart right behind the old man furrowed her brows slightly, trying to see what was going on. A young couple standing in the adjacent line exchanged glances but said nothing.
Frank took a deep breath, his thin hand reaching out to take back the carton of milk on the counter. But before he could do so, the cashier spoke up, her voice ringing clearly in the otherwise quiet supermarket. “Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the years. He began to count, his voice murmuring softly, a habit deeply ingrained in him. When he reached the last bill, he suddenly stopped. His total was $2 short compared to the amount displayed on the cashier screen.
Frank looked up, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, nor did he want to become the center of attention. He glanced back at the items on the counter, wondering which one he should put back to match the money he had. He reached out to take the carton of milk, but at that moment, the voice of the cashier rang out, followed by a heavy silence that seemed to blanket the entire checkout line.
“Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the years. He began to count, his voice murmuring softly, a habit deeply ingrained in him. When he reached the last bill, he suddenly stopped. His total was $2 short compared to the amount displayed on the cashier screen.
Frank looked up, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, nor did he want to become the center of attention. He glanced back at the items on the counter, wondering which one he should put back to match the money he had. He reached out to take the carton of milk, but at that moment, the voice of the cashier rang out, followed by a heavy silence that seemed to blanket the entire checkout line.
“Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the years. He began to count, his voice murmuring softly, a habit deeply ingrained in him. When he reached the last bill, he suddenly stopped. His total was $2 short compared to the amount displayed on the cashier screen.
Frank looked up, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, nor did he want to become the center of attention. He glanced back at the items on the counter, wondering which one he should put back to match the money he had. He reached out to take the carton of milk, but at that moment, the voice of the cashier rang out, followed by a heavy silence that seemed to blanket the entire checkout line.
“Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the years. He began to count, his voice murmuring softly, a habit deeply ingrained in him. When he reached the last bill, he suddenly stopped. His total was $2 short compared to the amount displayed on the cashier screen.
Frank looked up, his eyes showing a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone, nor did he want to become the center of attention. He glanced back at the items on the counter, wondering which one he should put back to match the money he had. He reached out to take the carton of milk, but at that moment, the voice of the cashier rang out, followed by a heavy silence that seemed to blanket the entire checkout line.
“Don’t have enough money?” she said, stretching out the words as she shoved the carton of milk back toward him with a firm motion. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was loud enough for those around to hear. A few customers glanced at each other, some lowered their heads to avoid meeting the old man’s eyes, while others just cast a quick look before returning to their own business.
Frank froze for a moment, not because of what she said, but because of how she said it. In her voice, there was contempt, irritation, and even a hint of mockery, as if the sight of an old poor man unable to afford his groceries was something to be ridiculed. “I’m sorry. I’ll put this back,” Frank said slowly, his voice low, trying to remain calm. He picked up the carton of milk, intending to set it aside, but the cashier wasn’t done yet. She shrugged, looking at him with even more annoyance. “It’s always the same. There are always people like you coming in here and wasting our time. If you don’t have money, don’t buy so much.”
She said this with indifference, not caring how much her words might hurt someone else. Frank didn’t respond; he simply tightened his grip around the carton of milk, as if lost in thought. He had heard words like these before. He knew that some people always judged others by their circumstances, always looked down on them. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy to accept.
He had once stood on the battlefield, watched his comrades fall, giving their lives to protect this country, to protect the lives of people like this cashier. And now, as old age crept in, he had nothing left but a weary body and a meager pension that was barely enough to cover his living expenses. He lived alone in a small apartment in an old neighborhood where the walls had long been stained with the passage of time, where winter always seemed to last longer and feel colder than in other parts of the city.
Frank didn’t have many friends. Some of his old comrades had passed away, while the rest were scattered in different places, quietly living out their final years in various circumstances. He once had a family, but time and life’s upheavals had taken everything away. The wife he had loved most had left him many years ago, and his only son had long stopped keeping in touch. He didn’t blame anyone; he understood that life doesn’t always unfold the way people wish. But no matter what, he always reminded himself that he had to keep going, keep walking forward, no matter how cold and lonely the road ahead might be.
That evening, Frank decided to go out and buy some groceries. He had hesitated for a long time before leaving the house, carefully counting every coin left in the small tin box to make sure he had enough money for the most essential items. When he entered the supermarket, he didn’t hurry but slowly walked down the aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves stocked with goods. He saw cartons of milk, loaves of bread, and neatly packaged fresh meat, but he knew he couldn’t afford everything. He chose a small loaf of bread, the cheapest carton of milk, and a few packs of instant noodles. He picked them up, put them down, then picked them up again, as if carefully weighing how much he could spend while still making sure he had enough to last through the coming days.
While selecting his items, Frank noticed a few times that people’s eyes glanced at him. Some looked at him with sympathy, some only gave a brief glance before turning away, while others had a gaze full of indifference, as if his existence didn’t matter. Frank didn’t mind; he was used to being forgotten, used to the feeling of blending into the background without anyone truly noticing. He simply focused on shopping, trying his best to calculate how his small amount of money could stretch for the entire week.
When he finished choosing, Frank headed toward the checkout counter. He placed each item on the conveyor belt, his trembling hands taking out the money he had. He didn’t rush, knowing he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes—not even a single cent. The crumpled bills lay in his hand, some already worn thin, and the coins were dull and worn from the
