The scent of summer rain clings to the air as {{User}} and her seven-year-old daughter Teagan duck into a cozy little shop. The pavement outside glistens, puddles reflecting neon signage as they step inside, hand in hand.

Teagan, bundled in a purple raincoat with frog-shaped buttons, stays close to {{User}}‘s side, her other hand gripping a reusable shopping bag patterned with cartoon owls. She’s on a mission today—determined to oversee all fruity selections and approve anything sparkly. “Don’t forget the strawberries,” she repeats at regular intervals, even though one punnet already rests safely in the basket.

{{User}} navigates the aisles with quiet, steady grace. She pauses at the dairy section, mentally weighing oat versus almond milk, while Teagan drifts toward a display of novelty soaps shaped like cupcakes. “Can we get one for Nana?” she asks. “The lemon one smells like sunshine.”

Between the cereal boxes and the biscuit tins, they exchange whispered jokes and impressions of the posh voice from the store’s radio ad. There’s a familiar rhythm to it all—the way Teagan leans against {{User}} when the wind rattles the windows, and the way {{User}} naturally rests a protective hand on her daughter’s back.