☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
A Piece of Candy and the “Why”
The grocery line curves toward the register in a slow shuffle. Carts rest at easy angles. Cool air rolls across the aisle from open cases. Bright wrappers fill the shelves along the queue, a corridor designed for quick impulses and small comforts.
A woman waits with a basket against her hip. Greens, bread, a carton of eggs. Beside her, a small figure shifts from foot to foot, shoes letting out soft squeaks. Tiny hands hover near a row of colorful candy. Eyes lift toward her face with practiced hope, the kind of look that forms long before words do.
“One piece of candy,” the little voice says, palm open. The wrapper crackles in tiny fingers, bright colors catching overhead lights.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Inside the woman, two impulses rise at once. A simple yes that promises an easy line, an easy walk to the car, and an easier evening. And a quieter pause that carries more weight than the price on the package. Her body responds before she answers. Breath tightens. Shoulders lift. Something beneath the collarbones presses forward in a familiar knot.
This moment is not new. For years, quick yes responses softened errands but left a faint discomfort afterward. Candy had become shorthand for harmony. The pattern appeared harmless from the outside. Inside, each automatic yes left a subtle sting she rarely named.
The line inches forward. A scanner chirps. The child waits with patient optimism. “Please. I was really good today.” The rhythm of those words has been learned through repetition.
The woman studies the small face beside her, then the candy again. A quiet curiosity rises. What is the real reason behind this want. And what is the real reason behind her hesitation. Answers begin to surface not as thoughts but as sensations. The knot in her chest. The slight pressure in her jaw. The faint tug of regret from earlier choices like this one.
Under those sensations lives a memory. A younger version of herself reaching for sweets at a quiet kitchen table every time loneliness tapped her shoulder. Sugar softened the edge of the feeling but never replaced what she needed. That memory drifts up now, offering context for her reaction.
The child watches her pause. A tiny foot taps. Uncertainty flickers.
The woman brings the basket closer to her side and steadies her breath. Being intuitive in this aisle means listening past routine. Past convenience. Past the urge to smooth the moment quickly. The deeper question waits beneath everything. Is this choice rooted in comfort or avoidance.
She bends slightly to meet the child’s gaze. “Can I ask you something,” she says in a calm voice. “What makes you want this candy right now.”
The child thinks, eyebrows pulling together. “Because it tastes good.” A beat. “And the line is boring.” Another pause. “And I want something special.”
The honesty lands with a kind clarity. Taste, boredom, wanting to feel special. Each reason feels real. The woman nods. The reasons speak to her own heart too. Long days crave sweetness. Slow lines crave entertainment. Everyone longs to feel seen.
Her attention drops inward again. Warm breath. The slight weight of the basket. The ache behind the sternum. A steady, intuitive question rises. Will this yes teach the kind of comfort she wants for this child. Or will it teach the shortcut that once left her aching.
She straightens slowly. “Thank you for telling me,” she says. Her voice stays warm. “I want to understand you. And I want you to understand me too.”
The candy shifts in the child’s hand as the woman kneels slightly and takes their free hand. Her own story rises gently. “When I was your age, I reached for candy every time I felt lonely or bored. It helped for a few minutes. Then the empty feeling came back. It took a long time for me to learn what real comfort feels like.”
The child listens, curiosity replacing expectation. The woman continues. “I care about your body. I care about your feelings. I want the special things we choose to last longer than a few minutes.”
She glances at the wrapper again. Her intuition settles into place. “Here is what I think for today,” she says softly. “Let’s leave the candy here and choose something together at home that feels truly special. Something we can share. Something that feels like us, not just a quick treat from a shelf.”
A flicker of disappointment crosses the small face. Then something steadier appears beneath it. Trust. The kind that grows when adults speak with care instead of rules.
The line moves. A cart clatters forward. Fingers turn the wrapper once more, then place it gently back on the shelf. The gesture feels deliberate, almost thoughtful. A small exhale passes through the woman. Not relief from saving money. Relief from honoring the deeper “why.”
They move toward the register. “What kind of special thing,” comes the quiet question beside her. Curiosity has replaced longing.
She smiles softly. “Maybe tonight we bake something simple and share it with a story. Or maybe we make a drawing and hang it in the kitchen. We can decide together after dinner.” The child nods, the disappointment already fading into possibility.
The conveyor belt hums as groceries slide forward. By the time they walk out into fresh air, the moment has already changed shape. The child learned that desires can be explored instead of dismissed. The adult learned that intuition can guide even the smallest choices in ordinary aisles.
Later, flour dusts the counter. A bowl waits for batter. Laughter rises as spoons tap against the sides. A simple dessert takes form under shared hands. The sweetness here lives in connection, in presence, in the memory of how the choice unfolded earlier in the store.
The ache inside the woman softens. The “why” received attention. And that attention turned a piece of candy into a moment of truth neither of them will forget.
The Truth Beneath
Every want carries two layers. The surface desire and the deeper reason beneath it. When you pause long enough to listen for the quieter truth, your choices begin to rise from intention rather than habit. Over time, those small moments build a life where comfort grows from connection, where reward aligns with values, and where even a candy aisle can become a doorway into deeper understanding.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
A Piece of Candy and the “Why”
The grocery line curves toward the register in a slow shuffle. Carts rest at easy angles. Cool air rolls across the aisle from open cases. Bright wrappers fill the shelves along the queue, a corridor designed for quick impulses and small comforts.
A woman waits with a basket against her hip. Greens, bread, a carton of eggs. Beside her, a small figure shifts from foot to foot, shoes letting out soft squeaks. Tiny hands hover near a row of colorful candy. Eyes lift toward her face with practiced hope, the kind of look that forms long before words do.
“One piece of candy,” the little voice says, palm open. The wrapper crackles in tiny fingers, bright colors catching overhead lights.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Inside the woman, two impulses rise at once. A simple yes that promises an easy line, an easy walk to the car, and an easier evening. And a quieter pause that carries more weight than the price on the package. Her body responds before she answers. Breath tightens. Shoulders lift. Something beneath the collarbones presses forward in a familiar knot.
This moment is not new. For years, quick yes responses softened errands but left a faint discomfort afterward. Candy had become shorthand for harmony. The pattern appeared harmless from the outside. Inside, each automatic yes left a subtle sting she rarely named.
The line inches forward. A scanner chirps. The child waits with patient optimism. “Please. I was really good today.” The rhythm of those words has been learned through repetition.
The woman studies the small face beside her, then the candy again. A quiet curiosity rises. What is the real reason behind this want. And what is the real reason behind her hesitation. Answers begin to surface not as thoughts but as sensations. The knot in her chest. The slight pressure in her jaw. The faint tug of regret from earlier choices like this one.
Under those sensations lives a memory. A younger version of herself reaching for sweets at a quiet kitchen table every time loneliness tapped her shoulder. Sugar softened the edge of the feeling but never replaced what she needed. That memory drifts up now, offering context for her reaction.
The child watches her pause. A tiny foot taps. Uncertainty flickers.
The woman brings the basket closer to her side and steadies her breath. Being intuitive in this aisle means listening past routine. Past convenience. Past the urge to smooth the moment quickly. The deeper question waits beneath everything. Is this choice rooted in comfort or avoidance.
She bends slightly to meet the child’s gaze. “Can I ask you something,” she says in a calm voice. “What makes you want this candy right now.”
The child thinks, eyebrows pulling together. “Because it tastes good.” A beat. “And the line is boring.” Another pause. “And I want something special.”
The honesty lands with a kind clarity. Taste, boredom, wanting to feel special. Each reason feels real. The woman nods. The reasons speak to her own heart too. Long days crave sweetness. Slow lines crave entertainment. Everyone longs to feel seen.
Her attention drops inward again. Warm breath. The slight weight of the basket. The ache behind the sternum. A steady, intuitive question rises. Will this yes teach the kind of comfort she wants for this child. Or will it teach the shortcut that once left her aching.
She straightens slowly. “Thank you for telling me,” she says. Her voice stays warm. “I want to understand you. And I want you to understand me too.”
The candy shifts in the child’s hand as the woman kneels slightly and takes their free hand. Her own story rises gently. “When I was your age, I reached for candy every time I felt lonely or bored. It helped for a few minutes. Then the empty feeling came back. It took a long time for me to learn what real comfort feels like.”
The child listens, curiosity replacing expectation. The woman continues. “I care about your body. I care about your feelings. I want the special things we choose to last longer than a few minutes.”
She glances at the wrapper again. Her intuition settles into place. “Here is what I think for today,” she says softly. “Let’s leave the candy here and choose something together at home that feels truly special. Something we can share. Something that feels like us, not just a quick treat from a shelf.”
A flicker of disappointment crosses the small face. Then something steadier appears beneath it. Trust. The kind that grows when adults speak with care instead of rules.
The line moves. A cart clatters forward. Fingers turn the wrapper once more, then place it gently back on the shelf. The gesture feels deliberate, almost thoughtful. A small exhale passes through the woman. Not relief from saving money. Relief from honoring the deeper “why.”
They move toward the register. “What kind of special thing,” comes the quiet question beside her. Curiosity has replaced longing.
She smiles softly. “Maybe tonight we bake something simple and share it with a story. Or maybe we make a drawing and hang it in the kitchen. We can decide together after dinner.” The child nods, the disappointment already fading into possibility.
The conveyor belt hums as groceries slide forward. By the time they walk out into fresh air, the moment has already changed shape. The child learned that desires can be explored instead of dismissed. The adult learned that intuition can guide even the smallest choices in ordinary aisles.
Later, flour dusts the counter. A bowl waits for batter. Laughter rises as spoons tap against the sides. A simple dessert takes form under shared hands. The sweetness here lives in connection, in presence, in the memory of how the choice unfolded earlier in the store.
The ache inside the woman softens. The “why” received attention. And that attention turned a piece of candy into a moment of truth neither of them will forget.
The Truth Beneath
Every want carries two layers. The surface desire and the deeper reason beneath it. When you pause long enough to listen for the quieter truth, your choices begin to rise from intention rather than habit. Over time, those small moments build a life where comfort grows from connection, where reward aligns with values, and where even a candy aisle can become a doorway into deeper understanding.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
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