A thin ribbon of gray smoke rose from the small aluminum pot on the back burner. The smell of scorched copper and boiled-dry water met my nose before I even reached the stove, a sharp reminder of how quickly the afternoon had slipped away from me.
I shifted Lila higher on my left shoulder, her wet forehead pressing against my neck. Her tears had soaked through my faded blue shirt, leaving a cold, damp circle against my skin.
With my free hand, I slid the hot pot onto the cold side of the range. The metal gave a sharp, protesting ping as it scraped against the iron grate, the sound echoing in the small room.
Beneath my feet, the kitchen vinyl felt sticky and warm under the dry heat of a Florida November afternoon. Ivy was screaming in her cracked plastic bouncer seat by the refrigerator, her tiny fists bunched into tight red balls as she kicked her legs against the worn safety strap.
My fingers went to my collarbone, tapping the skin in a quick, uneven rhythm. The digital clock on the microwave shifted to five past five, its green numbers blinking against the dark plastic.
On the counter, the steady hum of a plastic baby formula mixer filled the small kitchen, whirring as it tried to blend the remaining powder. I had used the last clean bottle thirty minutes ago, and the sink was a mountain of plastic parts, nipples, and rings.
A stained flannel burp cloth hung over my other shoulder, smelling faintly of sour milk and laundry detergent. I looked at the feeding log on the refrigerator door, the yellow paper curled at the corners, waiting for a pen that had rolled under the stove.
I needed to measure the distilled water, but Lila’s head felt heavy against my neck, her breathing hitching in small, wet gasps. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and watched the gray smoke slowly disappear into the ceiling vent, feeling the physical weight of my own limbs.
The back door clicked open at six. Brandon walked in, his gray silk tie already loosened around his collar, his leather briefcase swinging against his knee.
