She stood near the entrance of the grocery store, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other gripping the thin fabric of her worn sweater. Her face was pale, marked with dark bruises along her cheekbones and arms. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen.
“Please,” she whispered to people walking past. “Just some hot soup.”
Most people avoided meeting her eyes.
I had just reached for my wallet when my husband’s voice sliced through the cold afternoon air.
“Get a job and get sterilized!” he shouted, loud enough for half the parking lot to hear.
The girl flinched as if struck. Her gaze dropped to the ground. A few shoppers glanced over, uncomfortable—but no one stepped in.
