I was hanging out on the front stoop with Dana’s mom, Debra, and the two girls when Dana got home feeling exhausted, as she did most evenings. One Wednesday evening, I met Dana at her house to join her family for a grocery run to Target. This was neither the first nor the last time I would watch Madison and her younger sister, Paige, beg their mom for junk food. “I feel bad,” she said, letting out a heavy sigh. ![]() ![]() As her daughter walked away, Dana turned to me. Dana explained that Madison could pick one. “Can I have this?” she asked her mom each time, smiling hopefully while holding the treat up with one hand. Madison stopped by our table five times over the course of an hour with various goodies: gummies, Ritz crackers, tortilla chips, chocolate-covered pretzels, soda. ![]() During the conversation, Dana’s thirteen- year- old daughter, Madison, kept herself entertained by touring the grocery aisles. We sat kitty corner from each other, the smell of pastrami and pasta salad from the deli just a few feet away filling our noses. The first time I met Dana Williams, she and I chatted at one of a handful of wooden tables inside a supermarket.
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