I unwrapped a peanut butter granola bar with my teeth, trying not to let the wrapper crinkle and wake Ivy.
The dry oats stuck in my throat, but I had not eaten since noon yesterday when Brandon was still packing his things.
Lila let out a thin, sharp cry that made my fingers tighten on the yellow page, leaving a crease across the midnight line.
I touched my collarbone, feeling the hard ridge of bone under my flannel shirt, a habit that always returned when the house got too quiet.
If I called Brandon now, he might answer.
He might hear the crying and realize he had left me with more than I could handle.
But the thought of his defensive voice on the line, explaining how he had earned this weekend with his friends, made me put the phone back in my pocket.
I pulled Lila onto my shoulder and began to rock, her small forehead hot against my neck.
The yellow paper log sat on the carpet, showing only eight ounces of formula written down since yesterday evening.
