Sophie sat at the wooden table, her bare feet dangling inches above the floor. She watched me with wide, quiet eyes.
On the laminate counter, a stack of crusty plates sat next to a half-empty box of generic cornflakes. David had left the milk carton out, the cardboard damp with condensation.
I reached for the orange prescription bottle on the shelf. The white safety cap felt welded shut against my weak grip.
I pressed the bottle against my palm and twisted, but my wrist gave out, sending the plastic container rolling across the floor.
Sophie slid off her chair and picked it up. She handed it to me without a word.
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said, my voice dry. “Can you help Mommy open this?”
She tried with her small fingers, but she was too small. I ended up using the edge of the kitchen counter to pry the lid loose, my breath hitching as the movement pulled at my stitches.
I swallowed the blue pill with a sip of tap water from a plastic cup.
