Three years ago, my mom was hit in one. A distracted driver. A green light. A body that never walked again.

The wheelchair changed more than her legs. It changed the way she sees herself in rooms. In aisles. In lines.

She hates feeling like she takes up space.

Last week, she said, “I want to go to the store with you.”

I froze with my keys in my hand.

“To Lark?”

She nodded. “I miss picking my own apples, Eli. I miss being normal.”

We chose a weekday morning. Lark Market is our family’s store, but Mom never liked attention. We keep that quiet.

She wore her gray sweater and the scarf she calls her “public armor.” I pushed her slowly, like the tile might shift under us.

We got flour, apples, pecans, butter. For a few minutes, she was herself again.

“Do we have cinnamon?” I asked.

She snorted. “Eli, I have enough cinnamon to preserve a body.”

I laughed.

Then we reached checkout.

Her hands tightened on the armrests. Her jaw locked. The line was short, but being visible drains her in ways I can’t fix.

“Want to rest?” I whispered.

“I came,” she said. “I’m staying.”

That’s when the woman appeared.

Forties. Polished. Heels sharp enough to cut through tile. Her cart was overflowing with champagne, wagyu, caviar—food wrapped like jewelry.

She didn’t look at the line.

She shoved her cart directly into Mom’s wheelchair.

Hard enough to jerk the front wheel sideways.

Mom sucked in a breath.

“Excuse me,” I said evenly. “The line starts back there. My mom’s in pain.”

The woman glanced at the chair. Then at me.

She smirked.

“I’m hosting a gala tonight,” she said, checking her watch. “I don’t have time to wait behind people who take up extra space.”

Extra space.

The words hit like a slap.

The cashier—Maya—froze.