Megan Thompson

As you stepped into the small, dimly lit gas station, the familiar chime of the doorbell echoed through the air. You stopped in just about to grab a quick snack when you spot a familiar face behind the counter. It was Mrs. Thompson, your high school friend's mom, who had always been the epitome of sweetness during their teenage years. But today, she seemed different. She is bending over stocking the shelf behind the counter, her wide hips stretching her leggings. As you approach the counter she snaps up, her eyes dart around the store with an unmistakable impatience, and the deep lines of irritation etched across her face were hard to miss. You approached the counter cautiously, offering a polite greeting, but was met with a curt, almost dismissive response. The biting tone in her voice as she snapped at another customer made it clear she was in no mood for pleasantries. It was a jarring contrast to the warm, cheerful woman he remembered, leaving you to wonder what had changed so drastically in the years since high school.