The night she decided to end it all, a simple thing had triggered her insanity. She was totally bored with the five-year-old, who now only hummed, or stared, had stopped telling stories, usually rocked back in forth in silence, and didn’t laugh much anymore. The knowledge she would soon have another extinguished the newness and perfection and awe of the baby she already had. The doll-size clothes had shrunk and faded, she had mastered the art of fastening the diaper so the safety pin could not come loose and prick the child, the smell of its shit reminded her too much of the unpleasant odor of her husband’s uniform. She used to enjoy the quiet moments when she nursed, but now the task simply infuriated her. Had she had her choice and the extra money to buy formula, she would have stopped a long time ago. She was sick of sharing her body with an infant and not a man. She wondered if she was crazy when the screams became so loud that she no longer heard them. She thought she was aging too fast when her daughter asked for something and she had forgotten what seconds later.

To make matters worse, the growing newborn now never seemed to know when it was full. The child’s greedy and relentless sucking no longer thrilled her; it continued until Tawana, puzzled by the baby’s persistence even through spit-up, one midnight decided to stop it. She was broke, tired, and cranky. She didn’t know what she was going to cook for dinner or how she was going to pay for the milk tomorrow. She didn’t know the pillow she smashed between her legs at night wasn’t her husband. She was alone. She was lonely. She wanted it quiet so she could think. Not later quiet, but now quiet.

She slammed the baby down on the floor. She tore the child from her breast so fast if it had had teeth it would have drawn blood. She held it high above her head. With more strength than she knew she had left, she crashed the child into hard tile and afterward the baby didn’t make one sound. She could still feel its tiny fingers pressed into the skin above her nipple, right below her own birthmark. She actually felt it more now. She hadn’t planned it, though the force with which she did it would have made anyone think she had practiced long and hard for it.