It was one of ordinary days in October, grey and drizzling all the time. I dragged myself out of the bed and all of the routines began early. I dropped my two older children at school with relief and unwillingly headed to the supermarket to buy groceries with my youngest. Never had I felt any tinge of gratitude for my comfortable home or lovely family.
I was getting mad and frustrated with this early day, and my son, just four years old at that time, was being difficult. I raced around to pick the items with no regard to the cost, while trying in vain to control my naughty child whose behavior had now added to my complete displeasure. Yes, I was that mother, threatening, roaring at a small child, the kind of behavior you see in others before you have children and think, "I will never be one of those people. "
Eventually we made it to the checkout and stood in the queue waiting our turn. After a short time, I noticed that someone had joined the line behind us. I turned and saw an old man. He wore a dirty overcoat, tied around the middle with rope. His shoes were worn-out, and his trousers tapped around sockless ankles even on this cold, wet day. In his hands he carried a small box of long-life milk.
As I had too many groceries, I asked him if he'd like to go ahead of me. It was more like an automatic reaction than an act of kindness on my part. Perhaps I just did it out of a sense of guilt, or I just wanted him gone. After all, it was his presence that made me uncomfortable, in the same way I feel uncomfortable and avoid my eyes when passing a homeless person.
He didn't respond to me as if I had said nothing to him. Then I looked at him and repeated my words. This time, I was sure that he had heard what I said.
注意：
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