"Yep, the manufacturer coupon. With that, pre-tax comes to $161.04. After that, it should be $164.53."
Tyler scans the coupon and blinks at the number on the screen—$164.53—before an impressed grin spreads across his face.
"Dang, Mrs. Durant, you're like a calculator."
"Math wiz," Mabel mutters, scanning a clipboard in her hand and shaking her head.
"Hardly. Just quick math, Mabel," I correct, shaking my head. "You know that geometry made me nauseous."
"Still impressive, honey. Tell those adorable boys of yours I said hello," she says, before walking toward the back office. I feel a jolt run through my entire body at her words.
Impressive.
She called me impressive. I had always just seen math as something that I'm good at, not something to hold pride in.
Numbers always made sense in my head, and when I was seven years old, doing high-number multiplication tables in my head, my mother thought I could be a math genius.
She was wrong.
I was good at balancing numbers and doing quick math in my head, but put down an equation in front of me, and my brain blue-screens.
Kind of wish my mother was right, though. Maybe I could be an engineer or something by now. I could be doing something useful in society that makes good money instead of... this.
Tyler finishes ringing me out, and I wave goodbye, passing theHIRING, SEE MABELsign by the door as I walk out to the parking lot.
The sign sticks in my head as I load the groceries into my car—the car thatAtlasbought.
I totaled the groceries, carefully clipped the coupons, and did the math on what to keep in our food budget—that Iconstructed but bought with moneyAtlasmade.
It's uneven. It's always uneven.I don't put forth any monetary contributions, so any work I do feels worthless.
Slamming my trunk closed, I glance back at the sign before studying the clean and brightMABEL'S MARKETsignage outside her store.
I always love coming to the market —the smell of the bakery and fresh produce, how clean Mabel keeps the store, and the thought of the work—routine organizational work—is something I already do.
I run a household. I've worked in the service industry before, soothing adult temper tantrums that are so much like my children's temper tantrums.
I'm good at de-escalation, I'm good at math, I'm reliable, and I'm willing to work.
With my mind made up, I walk back inside the store. Tyler frowns when he sees me, but I just walk by him toward the back.
"Is she in the office?"
"Uh... yeah..." Tyler blinks, looking a little concerned now. "Is everything okay, Mrs. Durant?"
"Everything's great, Tyler," I soothe with a smile, and he nods his head, still looking a little dazed.
When I peek into the back office, I see Mabel sitting at her desk, muttering to herself. Her computer has a spreadsheet on the screen and she’s typing on the keyboard like she wants to punish it.
Mabel opened Mabel’s Market nearly a decade ago, and Mercy Ridge hasn’t been the same since.
Using her inheritance, she built the store in honor of her grandfather, Hal Freeman, whose grocery in Mississippi was forced out by a corporation he couldn’t afford to fight.
That loss shaped her family and her purpose, and opening the market became a kind of healing for Mabel. She transformed an abandoned brick building into a place the town quickly claimed as its own, thanks to fair prices, freshproduce from Marshall Farm, and pure generosity.
Mabel never wants anyone in this town to go hungry and will deliver groceries to families in need.
Her office is a testament to chaos, papers scattered, boxes stacked on top of each other from floor to ceiling, pictures everywhere of Mabel and her family.
