I was in Trader Joe’s picking up some ingredients for dinner when I witnessed something that won’t let me go. There was a young boy, wearing a red T-shirt. I put his age to be about six. He had an older sister, maybe nine, and she was wearing a red T-shirt too. Their mother, who was wearing a harried look on her face, was telling them to find something for her, but to make sure it was NOT the teriyaki kind. She sounded a little stressed, as mothers of young children can be; I figured she was trying to get a lot done in a short amount of time. So there the children were, tasked with helping her out by finding whatever she wanted with NO teriyaki. A minute later, I rounded the aisle to run into them again, and I saw that the boy was holding still with his hands clasped together, looking very worried. The mother, some distance away from them, said over her shoulder, “Annie, read the label to make sure he didn’t get the one with teriyaki. “
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