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I looked out before, the truck was gone. No telling

what he's up to now. I'll fix you some good breakfast,

honey. You rise and stretch those legs, hear?" "Yes, Mama. Mama?" I said before she left the

room. She turned.

"Yes, honey?"

"What about. . ." I held my hands under my

ample breasts.

Mama's face turned sad again. "I was going to

tell you about that today," she said sadly. "You'll have

to just pump it out or you'll develop milk fever." "But the milk . . ."

"We can't offer it to anyone's baby, and that

woman won't let Paul have your milk," she added

bitterly. Mama hated waste in any shape or form. "How long will I have to do this, Mama?" "From the looks of you, a few weeks at least,

honey. I'm sorry."

My tears burned under my eyelids. Every time I did this, I would think of my baby forced to drink the milk of a stranger while his mother's milk was poured into the ground. From the way I ached, I couldn't postpone it much longer either. After breakfast Mama showed me what to do. All the hot tears I had held

back streaked down my cheeks.

They seemed to singe my heart as well as my

face. I think Mama turned away and left me because

she, too, was close to crying.

Afterward, when I lay back and closed my eyes,

I thought I could hear my baby's cry. I recalled his

tiny face and imagined what it would have been like

to have his lips on my nipple drawing the milk from

me. Perhaps, if I did this every time, it would make it

a little easier, I thought.

Late in the afternoon, Daddy returned. He had a

swollen left cheek and a black eye. There was a thin

gash along the top of his forehead, and his clothes

were wrinkled and marred with mud and grime as if

he had been dragged through the swamp. He limped