Seray Pekenti
The supermarket hums under the fluorescent glow, its lights illuminating rows of precisely aligned products. The floor glistens, spotless and sterile, as I clutch the handle of my cart, weaving through the aisles in search of the things on my list:
Chia seeds.
Granola.
Greek yoghurt.
I walk past Aisle Six.The lolly aisle. Sweet artificial scents cling to the back of my throat, thickening the air around me. Packaging spills from shelves, loud with melted colours, but I press my cart forward past the noise. I leave Aisle Six behind. I move towards the misted greens and pale yoghurts ahead.
Other mothers are here too, searching for the right balance between necessity and expectation. They drive their carts at a steady pace, their hands brushing across kale bundles, eyes skimming over protein and sugar quantities. Everything about them is delicate and measured, their kids silent and content. Their carts carefully filled with items that speak to the kind of mothers they hope to be. ThatI need to be. For her.
My daughter. She’s at home, most likely sitting in a corner with her crayons scattered around her as she draws across the pages. She didn’t say anything when I left, just a silent nod as she watched from the doorway. I didn’t push her; she probably had a long day at school. I packed her a chia seed pudding, a handful of nuts, and carefully arranged carrots. Although she never finishes the carrots, I still pack them. Why? Because the other mothers do.
A loud giggle breaks the hum of refrigeration units. A boy, not much older than my daughter, sits in a cart, his tiny hands grabbing a box of Tiny Teddies from the shelf, as though it might disappear if he lets go. Not far from him, his mother stands, gaze fixated forward as her fingers trace past rows of meal replacement shakes. His little feet kick lightly against the metal bar beneath him as he beams up at her, waiting for her approval. She doesn’t even look down.
The boy’s smile fades, lost in the sterile glow of the supermarket lights, swallowed by the weight of his mother’s silence. His fingers linger on the package before replacing it. His hands are empty now. His feet swing slower.
My daughter’s fragile fingers, once curled around a cart, feet swaying fast and carefree, just like his. Her eyes widened at the aisle, rows of red pulsing under the lights. Too bright. Too eager to be good. A pause. Her tiny hand reached forward for a bag of snakes. She curled her fingers, clutching tightly as excitement flickered through her.
Then a glance upward, a silent plea.
The slow shake of my head. Out of habit. Policing joy in the name of being proper.
Her fingers loosened.
The package was returned.
Her excitement vanished as quickly as it came.
The memory sharpens. Not just that singular moment, but a pattern. The way her fork hovers as she eats, never questioning why I provide the healthier option. Perhaps it’s the way she only watches, the way she never asks, nor reaches for something she so clearly wants. Howcould I have not noticed? A good mother would have.
The stillness in her is unnatural, is my doing. In teaching her control, I’ve taken her joy. In trying to be the mother I thought I should be, I lost the one she needed.
My gaze shifts back to the other aisle, where the mothers walk with coordinated efficiency, their carts full, their faces set in silent intention. Their children watch, but do not reach. Fingers curled at their side, eyes trained forward, waiting for permission that never comes.
I now turn down an aisle I refused to consider for the longest time. Aisle Six. It’s louder here. Brighter even. The smell of artificial fruit and sugar permeates the air, but it does not sting, no longer curls in my throat. I look along the shelves, the colours of packages bleeding into each other, until I find it. The bag of snakes. It crinkles as I raise it. The weight in my hands is an unfamiliar, almost foreign sensation. But my grip is firm.
The single bag is the only thing I carry now, small and insignificant in my grasp. I make my way toward the register. The other mothers eye me warily, their carts full, their steps certain, their faces set in silent judgment.
The conveyor belt is empty, save for the single bag.
The check-out operator doesn’t comment.
She hands me my receipt.
It’s short and light, like the weight in my chest.
Seray Pekenti, Year 11, 2025, Auburn Girls High School.