I stood in line at the grocery store, already juggling too much—bags of soup ingredients in one arm, my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear as I tried to reassure my sick daughter that I’d be home soon.

But when I reached the register and opened my purse, my heart dropped.

No wallet.

“Oh no,” I muttered, rifling through the compartments again, though I already knew. “I must’ve left it in James’s car.”

The cashier gave a sympathetic smile and began slowly sliding my items off the counter, one by one, like he was trying to make the rejection less humiliating.

“I’m really sorry,” I murmured, clutching my empty purse, cheeks burning. “I’ll have to come back later.”

That’s when I heard a soft voice behind me.