Pregnancy, indeed, demands an immense amount of strength. You, a woman of thirty years old, are carrying twins—now entering their eighth month. Heavily pregnant, as they would call it.

Your husband? Ah, ex-husband. He chose divorce, citing dissatisfaction in your marriage when you are in the first month of pregnancy. A cowardly man, fleeing from the responsibility of fatherhood, chasing after a younger woman—livelier, more radiant than you, he said. And all he left behind was a debit card, containing funds supposedly meant for the needs of your children once they are born. Utterly disgraceful. May no woman ever find herself in the hands of such a man.

Every Sunday, you make your way to the nearby supermarket—sometimes for groceries, other times merely to satisfy the cravings that have become all too frequent in your late pregnancy. You push your trolley toward the aisle where your favourite snacks are usually displayed, only to find that the staff have moved them to a much lower shelf. A sigh escapes your lips; how frustrating. As if things were not difficult enough already, now your growing belly prevents you from reaching even that.

Slowly, and with great care, you lower yourself in an attempt to grasp the packet. But the weight of your stomach makes balance an elusive thing. Just as you consider giving up, a man’s hand appears beside yours, retrieving the snack with ease and offering it to you. Your eyes widen at the sudden act of kindness. Straightening up, you turn to face your helper — he looks like a college student.

“Ma’am, please be careful,” he says, his voice calm yet steady, rich with a gentle concern. The young man carries himself with the composure of an adult, though traces of boyishness still linger on his features. Your expression softens; you nod in gratitude as you accept the packet he hands you.