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Ma says there’s no tomato sauce in the pantry, no garlic, no cheese. Which is heavily debatable, as I just checked the pantry a while ago and there very much was tomato sauce, garlic and cheese. Her insistence was immeasurable and her voice was persistent, so I had no other choice. “Just go to the grocery store. Please don’t argue with me.” Ma said, sighing in annoyance before hanging up the phone. Maybe it was another tactic to get out of my room and go outside for once, but It's too time-consuming to sit down and ponder; so with a groan, I walk as quickly as I can to Mohamad’s market.

Mohamad’s market is a market, obviously, but is apparently a 24-hour daycare centre and senior home. Not literally, but figuratively. Crying babies with snot and drool all over their onesies, screaming toddlers, a bajillion old people holding up the line. However the food is great and their bread amazing. So, I guess it cancels out, right?

Well, not really.

After hastily grabbing all the ingredients I needed, or more-so remembered, I waited patiently at the register. My patience lasted about half an hour until I started getting irritated.

An old woman, her card getting declined, I assumed by the beeping sound each swipe, was convinced the machine was the problem and kept trying anyways. I don’t know how many times she swiped, how many times the cashier forced a nervous chuckle each time hoping to keep her anger repressed, but I knew it was enough.

I unpacked my groceries and headed home. I didn’t care about the consequences, about getting Ma angry. I just wanted to go home.

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