Chapter 5: The Milk

The screen went black. I shoved the phone under my pillow just as the door handle turned.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my breathing into a slow, rhythmic shallow draft. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a fist, loud enough to hear, surely loud enough to give me away. *Sarah.* The name echoed in the dark behind my eyelids. *Welcome back, Sarah.*

"Elara?"

Chloe’s voice was a whisper, soft and solicitous. I didn't move. I let my mouth hang slightly open, mimicking the slack-jawed stupor of the sedated.

She moved into the room. I heard the soft *clink* of plastic on the nightstand, then the rustle of fabric as she sat in the armchair in the corner. She let out a long, weary sigh.

"I know you're awake," she said.

I opened my eyes to slits. The room was dim, lit only by the hallway spillover. Chloe was watching me, her legs crossed, a baby bottle held loosely in her hand.

"Is she okay?" I croaked. "Lily?"

"She's an angel," Chloe said. She swirled the bottle. The liquid inside coated the plastic, thick and creamy. "She was hungry. Famished, actually. I warmed this up for her, but she fell asleep before I could get it to her."

I stared at the bottle.

"My supply dropped," I whispered. It was a source of deep shame, another way my body had failed. "I didn't think I had that much left."

"I found a bag buried in the back of the freezer," Chloe said smoothly. "You must have pumped it before the surgery. It's good stuff. Look at the fat content."

She tilted the bottle toward the light. The milk was a rich, opaque ivory, clinging to the sides of the container like heavy cream.

I frowned, the drug haze momentarily pierced by a sharp, biological memory. My milk hadn't looked like that. Not since the first week. The stress of the C-section, the pain, the recovery—my production had turned watery and blue-tinged. Skim milk. Not this liquid gold.

"It looks... different," I said.

"Freezing changes the consistency," Chloe said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. She stood up, smoothing her shirt. It was a pale grey silk blouse, elegant and impractical for childcare. "I'm going to put this back in the fridge. Waste not, want not."

She walked toward the bed to grab my empty water cup. As she leaned over me, a scent washed over my face.

It wasn't perfume. It wasn't the antiseptic smell of the house.

It was sweet. Yeasty. Warm and unmistakable. It smelled like a nursery.

I looked up at her chest.

The grey silk was pristine, except for one spot. On her right side, directly over her breast, a small, dark circle was blooming. It was wet.

My eyes locked onto it. The fabric was clinging to her skin, outlining the heavy, swollen curve of a nipple beneath.

Chloe saw my gaze. She followed it down.

For a second, the mask slipped. Her eyes widened, a flash of genuine panic cracking the perfect aunt facade. She jerked upright, crossing her arms over her chest, covering the stain.

"Leaking water bottle," she muttered, stepping back quickly. "I must have spilled it when I was filling yours."

She turned and hurried to the door, the bottle of rich, creamy milk clutched tight in her hand.

"Go to sleep, Elara," she called over her shoulder, her voice tight. The door clicked shut.

I lay frozen in the dark, the smell of warm milk still lingering in the air. I knew that smell. I knew that stain. I knew what a let-down reflex felt like, the way the body betrayed you when a baby cried.

That wasn't frozen milk. That wasn't my milk.

She wasn't using a bottle to feed Lily. She was nursing my daughter herself.