The Grandmother at the Market
Every morning, before dawn broke and the roosters began their songs, Madame Lucille, a grandmother in her late seventies, would slowly make her way down the cobblestone road that led to the village market. Her hands, gnarled by years of labor, clutched two metal buckets filled with fresh eggs — white and brown, smooth and fragile, treasures from her small farm. The townspeople knew her well.
She had been selling eggs for as long as anyone could remember.
Her voice, though aged and raspy, still carried warmth as she called out:
“Fresh eggs from my hens! Just laid this morning — come and see for yourself!”
She didn’t earn much, but each coin mattered.
Her husband, bedridden after a stroke, depended on her. Their tiny home at the edge of the village was kept alive by her modest earnings and her unyielding spirit.
That morning was no different — or so she thought.
The Trouble Arrives
A few villagers stopped by, exchanging smiles and small talk as they bought her eggs. One young woman pressed a few extra coins into her hand. “God bless you, grandmother,” she said softly.
“You remind me of my own.”
Lucille smiled, her heart warmed by the kindness.
She adjusted her scarf, whispered a prayer of thanks, and began arranging her remaining eggs. Then, from across the market, a voice cut through the calm — loud, arrogant, mocking.
It was Leo, the neighborhood troublemaker. Everyone knew him — a young man in his twenties, always idle, always looking for a fight.
He had grown up without guidance, and over the years, his anger had found cruel ways to express itself.
He swaggered toward Lucille’s stall, smirking. “Well, well, the egg lady again. How much today, old one?”
“Same as always, my boy,” she said gently, hoping to defuse whatever storm he brought.
“Two francs a dozen.”
He laughed.
“Two francs? I’ll give you one.
Or better yet, I’ll take them for free.”
The laughter from nearby stalls died away. People turned to look, but no one intervened.
They knew Leo’s temper.
“Please,” Lucille whispered. “I can’t lower the price. It’s barely enough to buy bread.
My husband is sick—”
“Not my problem,” Leo snapped, stepping closer.
“You want to sell or not?”
When she didn’t respond, his face twisted in mock rage. In one sudden motion, he grabbed one of the buckets and hurled it at the stone wall behind her.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
