Part 2: A month ago, I gave birth to my daughter. Soon after that, I found out that every night my husband was secretly bringing my b/rea/st milk to his mother’s house. I chose to quietly follow him one night. What I saw there shook me to the core.

Through the narrow crack of the front door, the dim amber light of Dorothy’s living room spilled into the hallway. I held my breath, pressing my hand against my ribs to quiet the violent pounding of my heart. The air smelled of stale peppermint, rubbing alcohol, and old wood. What I expected to see was a mystery illness, a bizarre folk remedy, or perhaps my mother-in-law consumed by some strange delusion.

What I actually saw drained every ounce of warmth from my limbs.

In the center of the worn carpet sat an antique wooden bassinet—one Dorothy had pulled down from her attic years ago. Leaning over it was Tyler, gently holding a warm bottle filled with my milk. Beside him, Dorothy was dabbing a tiny, pale forehead with a damp washcloth.

Inside that bassinet was a baby.

A newborn, no bigger than my own daughter, wrapped in a faded yellow blanket. The infant let out a weak, raspy whimper, struggling to latch onto the nipple. Tyler’s voice trembled with a softness that made my stomach turn into knots.

"Come on, little one. Drink. It’s got everything you need. You’re going to be okay."

Dorothy wiped a tear from her hollow cheek. "If she doesn't keep this down, Tyler, we have to take her to the emergency room. We can't hide this anymore."

"No hospitals, Ma," Tyler snapped in a hushed, panicked whisper. "You know what happens if social services or the police get involved. They’ll track him down, and he’ll finish what he started. We just need to get her through these first few weeks. Brenda’s milk is healthy. It’s pure. It’s keeping her alive."

Hearing my name roll off his lips in that secretive, conspiratorial tone felt like a slap across the face. My milk. The liquid gold I spent sleepless nights pumping through tears, cracked skin, and exhaustion, thinking I was building a safety net for my own child. He was stealing it in the dead of night to nourish a secret baby hidden in his mother’s living room.

Whose child was this? Did Tyler have another woman? A secret family he maintained behind my back while I carried our daughter? The thought made the room spin violently. My knuckles turned white against the wooden frame of the door. As I stepped back in horror, my foot caught the edge of a loose floorboard on the porch.

The loud, shrill creak shattered the silence of the night.