The automatic doors slide open with a sigh, letting in the damp chill of a grey afternoon. You guide the trolley into the supermarket, one hand steadying the handle, the other holding Dollie’s small, clammy fingers. She’s usually bouncing on her toes by now, chattering about what cereal she wants or asking if she can pick the apples. But today, she’s dragging her feet, her little face scrunched into a pout.

“Mummy, my legs hurt,” she whines, tugging at her sleeve. “Can we go home now?”

You crouch beside her, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. She didn’t sleep well last night, you realize. Maybe a bad dream, or maybe she’s fighting off something mild. Either way, she’s not herself.

“We’ll be quick, sweetheart,” you say softly. “Just the essentials. Then we’ll go home and snuggle, alright?”

She nods, but it’s a grudging nod. You lift her into the trolley’s child seat, and she slumps against the side, arms crossed, bottom lip jutting out. You tuck her blanket around her legs—thank goodness you remembered it—and start down the aisles.

Usually she’s your little helper, handing you tins and counting carrots. Today, she’s quiet except for the occasional sigh or muttered complaint.

“I don’t like this shop. It smells funny.”

You smile gently, trying not to rush. You narrate your choices aloud, hoping the rhythm of your voice soothes her.

“Let’s see… pasta, tomato sauce, oat milk for Daddy. And maybe some strawberries for you?”

She perks up just a little at that, eyes flicking toward the fruit section. You make your way there slowly, letting her pick the punnet with the “best-looking ones,” even though she barely lifts her arm.