“What?” He had only half-heard me. He was drowsy and irritable from lack of sleep.

I sat up and turned on a light. His shirts were loose, but naked they were unmistakable. “Sorcha, I think you’re lactating.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. Turn out the damn light.”

“I think you are.”

He patted his chest. His hand froze there, and his eyes popped open. He sat up and stared down at his chest and laughed. “Holy hell.” He squeezed one, gently teased at the nipple. “Well, it’s not come in yet. Would you look at that.” He cupped both and inspected them for some time. He grinned at me. “Not bad, actually. I’d’ve been quite the girl. Guess I’m sort of a girl now, half a girl.”

It fascinated me, how unperturbed he was by this. When I lactated myself much later, it was a profoundly disorienting experience. I was never able to let my children nurse; the strangeness was too much. The shift in my body unnerved me, made me feel off-kilter and unbalanced. But Sorcha was unfazed by it.

It seems inevitable now that he would nurse Nuri, but the day I came home and found the child at his breast felt like a broken taboo. Which taboo was broken, how he had fractured it, I couldn’t name. It is rare, given the demands of work assignments, for a Semadran father to nurse, but it is not unheard of. It is common in the boroughs for new mothers hiding from their work assignments to band together for comfort and convenience; when one woman’s milk fails, another steps in to help. Father’s milk is accepted, wetnursing is encouraged, but a male wetnurse gave me pause.

I found Sorcha reclined on the couch, naked to the waist. He had Nuri propped on a cushion, and the child had nestled into the crook of his arm. Nuri nursed at his left breast, his tiny hands gently kneading Sorcha’s flesh. Sorcha’s right breast was bare. He stroked Nuri’s cheek and hummed him a lullaby. Sorcha smiled at me when I came through the door and held a finger to his lips. He mimed that Nuri was nearly asleep with his free hand.

“You’re nursing him?” I whispered. Sorcha nodded. “Does Nisa know?”

He frowned at me. “Hell, Ariah, of course she knows.”

Dirva came home just then. He opened the door and called for Nisa. I shushed him. He looked at me and saw Sorcha and his son just behind me. He opened his mouth to say something, narrowed his eyes, and closed it again. “Hmm,” he said. He blinked. Sorcha watched him like a hawk, waiting for judgment or scorn or something else entirely. “Hmm,” Dirva said again. He placed his citizenship papers on the shelf by the door and went into his bedroom where his wife lay sleeping.