The kitchen was exactly as we had left it five days ago, with a half-empty mug of coffee sitting on the counter, its surface covered in a thin, grey skin that had dried around the rim.
I set Owen’s carrier on the kitchen table and began preparing the formula, my movements deliberate and slow to keep my hands from shaking as I measured the white powder.
The powder was thirty-eight dollars a can now, a specialized brand that Dr. Grace Patel had recommended to help Caleb’s digestion after his difficult birth. With my high school science teacher’s salary of forty-two thousand dollars a year, every spoonful felt like a calculation we could not afford to get wrong.
Anna stood by the sink, her back to me, staring out at the small suburban yard where the maple leaves lay wet and brown against the overgrown grass.
She was twisting the hem of her grey wool cardigan, her fingers working the fabric until the seams stretched thin and tight over her knuckles.
“The water needs to be lukewarm, Michael,” she said, her voice dropping into that soft, hurried cadence that always meant she was holding back her thoughts.
“I checked it on my wrist,” I said, rubbing the gold band of my wedding ring with my thumb.
The silence between us returned, heavy and cold, filling the space between the stove and the table like a physical wall that neither of us knew how to dismantle.
“He took four ounces at the hospital before they discharged us,” she whispered, still not turning around to face me.
“I know,” I said, placing the plastic collar onto the bottle and twisting it tight.
I watched her shoulders rise and fall with a shallow breath, but she did not move to help me, nor did she look at the baby sleeping in the carrier beside her.
The clock on the wall ticked with a sharp, metallic click that seemed to grow louder with every passing second, marking the distance that had opened between us since Eleanor had stormed out of the recovery room.
By three in the afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving a dull, greasy light on the living room rug and the scent of wet asphalt drifting through the floorboards.
The doorbell rang once, sharp and brief, before I could finish carrying the empty bottles back to the kitchen sink.
