Chapter 2

My daughter keeps sucking on her tiny fist. She's starving.

I force myself to chew the stale bread, washing it down with water as fast as I can.

I eat too fast. The dry crust scrapes my throat raw.

I manage to choke down several pieces. They swell up in my stomach. I want to throw up.

But even after all that, I still can't produce milk.

My daughter starts crying in my arms. Desperate little sounds.

"Sweetheart, give the baby this."

The old woman in the bed across from me holds out a warm bowl of oatmeal.

She looks at me the way nobody else has today. The pity and kindness.

I swallow hard and thank her.

"Where's the baby's father? Why isn't he here taking care of you two?"

I don't answer. I can't exactly say her dad's next door taking care of another woman's kid.

I blow on the oatmeal again and again, then carefully bring it to my daughter's lips.

"Stop!"

Ethan rushes over and smacks the bowl out of my hands.

His eyes behind those gold-rimmed glasses are ice cold.

"Do you have any idea she can't digest this?"

The hot oatmeal splashes all over my legs. Scalding.

I pull my daughter to my chest on instinct.

Ethan scoffs.

"What, you can't even hold a bowl now? Give me a break."

That look in his eyes. He thinks I'm faking it for sympathy.

I force my chin up and look him straight in the eye.

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"She's starving. A few pieces of bread aren't enough for me to produce milk."

He frowns.

"So this is my fault now?"

"Maybe if you'd actually eaten during your pregnancy instead of skipping meals, you wouldn't be this weak."

Like I had a choice.

I couldn't keep anything down. Severe morning sickness the entire time. Everything I ate came right back up.

I thought Ethan knew. He spent months writing that whole pregnancy journal. I was so touched by it.

Now I realize all those notes that didn't quite match my symptoms. That journal was never about me.

It was about Chloe.

And I actually believed it was for me. Read it over and over.

My throat burns. I clench my jaw.

He stares at me for a long second. His jaw tightens. Finally his voice softens a little.

"We're in a hospital. I can't be seen giving you special treatment. People will call it abuse of power."

"I'll go get a bottle for her."

"But this is the last time. Don't ask again."

He leaves. Comes back quick.

"Chloe made this herself. Give it to her."

The bottle is old and yellowed. Like somebody pulled it out of a trash can.

Every part of me wants to throw it in his face. But my daughter is hungry. So I take it.

I test the temperature on my wrist, then gently bring it to my daughter's mouth.

She sucks twice, then bursts out wailing.

The milk she spits up reeks. Sour. Rotten.

I panic, wiping the residue from her tiny mouth with a cloth.

He won't even look at me. Just jumps straight to Chloe's defense.

"She probably mixed it wrong. She didn't mean to."

"Besides, babies are tougher than you think. Don't be so dramatic."

He barely finishes talking when Chloe calls out from next door. That soft, helpless voice of hers.

"Ethan, the baby suddenly won't eat. What do I do?"

He's out the door before I can blink. Already on the phone with the pediatrics team, telling them to get over there now.

Funny how all those rules go out the window when it's her.

He does panic. He does care. Just not about us.

I rest my head against my daughter's soft cheek.

Something inside me just went quiet.

The old woman walks over and sighs.

"Sweetheart, a man like that ain't worth keeping."

I nod.

"Yeah. I'm done."