“Want to hear a weird story?”

If you’ve been following my blog, you probably know:
Since my husband’s passing, I’ve developed a thing for crying at grocery store checkouts.

A cashier will say something casual like,
“Rotisserie chicken is the best,”
and I’ll respond the only way I know how these days—
by bursting into tears.

It makes things awkward.
And I usually leave the cashier wondering if I’m okay.
(Spoiler: I’m not. But I’m trying.)

It’s gotten to the point where I mentally prep myself before going in.
As if grocery shopping wasn’t already something that required armor.

I walk the aisles like I’m on a grief obstacle course.
I resist picking up things my husband would’ve loved.
I suppress thoughts of dinners I used to make.
Sometimes I realize I’ve subconsciously put his snacks in the cart—
and I quietly place them back on the shelf.
Again.

By the time I get to the conveyor belt, I’m emotionally worn out.
But I exhale.
And I give myself one last pep talk:

“I will not cry here today.”

The cashier starts scanning my groceries.
I’m focused.
I’m calm.
I’m hyping myself up inside:
“I’m not f*ckin’ losing it—yes!”

And then… she coughs.

She looks at me and says,
“Want to hear a weird story?”

I smile politely.
“Sure.”
(Internally begging: Please don’t say you have Covid.)

Then she says it—
“My sister died yesterday.”

My brain halts.
Wait. What?

I ask her to repeat herself.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you?”

“Yeah,” she says.
“She choked on a piece of chocolate… and died.”

At first, I thought she was joking.
But I looked at her… and I saw it.

The tremble in her voice.
The holding-back of tears.
The weight in her eyes.

Grief.

The kind that keeps the world spinning around you while you feel stuck.
The kind that wants to scream,
“Can everyone please just stop? Don’t you see what just happened?”

I know that feeling.

So… I did what I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I cried.
Then she cried.

I stepped around the counter, and I hugged her.

“It’s okay to cry at the checkout line,” I told her.
And we stood there—two strangers—connected in our pain.

We talked about loss. About life.
About how it all changes in a blink.

Then I paid for my groceries.
And I left.

I’ve learned not to deny my pain.
I’m allowed to cry.
Even in aisle nine.
Even when it’s awkward.
Even when it surprises me.

Because beauty can come from suffering.

Connection can grow in unexpected places.

And no—I still haven’t made it through a checkout line without crying.

..D*mnit.

But I’m grateful for that “weird story.”
Because I’m grateful she shared it with me.
And I’m glad I could be the one who cried with her that day.