The other day, my husband and I walked into the supermarket like we always do—routine, familiar, nothing remarkable about it. Just another errand, another quiet moment in a long line of ordinary days. I wasn’t expecting anything. Certainly not that. But then, in the produce section, between stacks of fruit and vegetables, I saw her. For a second, I wasn’t even sure it was real. Is that really her? After all these years? And before I could stop myself, the words came out of me, bright and full of surprise: “Is that Dina Pisciotti?!”
She turned around, and I saw it—the brief flicker of recognition as she searched my face, trying to place me. And then it clicked. Her expression changed instantly, lighting up in a way that felt almost… electric. I smiled, expecting the usual—maybe a polite hug, a little laugh, the kind of restrained excitement people carry after years apart. That’s what I was ready for. That’s what I’ve always known.
But that’s not what happened.
She stepped toward me and suddenly—she pulled me in. Not a light, careful hug. Not the kind where people keep a polite distance. No. She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close, wrapping her arms around me with a kind of warmth I didn’t recognize. It was firm, real, almost urgent. And she was smiling—beaming—like seeing me had genuinely made her day. I barely had time to process it before she pulled away, laughing… only to pull me in again. A second hug. Even tighter. Even warmer.
And in that moment, something inside me shifted.
Because I realized, standing there in the middle of a grocery store, surrounded by strangers and fluorescent lights… I had never been hugged like that before. Not by my parents. Not by my siblings. Not by my husband. Not by anyone. Not like this. Not with that kind of unfiltered joy, that kind of openness, that kind of pure, unapologetic happiness just to see me.
We talked, of course. Introduced her to my husband, laughed, caught up on the surface details of our lives like people do. It was easy. Light. Pleasant. We even made plans to meet for lunch next week. Everything about it was normal… except it wasn’t. Because underneath every word, every smile, every casual sentence, I could still feel that hug.
Even now, I can’t stop thinking about it.
It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t last long. No one else in that store would have thought twice about it. But for me… it lingered. It stayed. It settled somewhere deep in my chest in a way I can’t quite explain. Why did that feel so different? Why did it matter so much?
And then the answer came, quiet but undeniable.
Because it was the first time in my life I felt completely, genuinely seen.
Not tolerated. Not expected. Not simply there. But seen. Welcomed. Celebrated, even, in the smallest, simplest way. And once you feel that—once you experience that kind of warmth, even for just a few seconds—it’s impossible to ignore what’s been missing all along.
So now I’m left with this strange, aching realization.
I’ve lived 57 years surrounded by people…
And it took a woman I barely knew, in the middle of a supermarket, to show me what real affection feels like.
