“Oh, your mom, actually.” Graham handed Matthew over. “But she had to run. She’s doing fine, though. Said something about Mel’s older kid making honor roll.”

“Oh.” Lauren felt a pinch of despair. Her mother called to brag about her sister? She didn’t even want to talk to her?

She tried to smile as she unsnapped her nursing top but here was another flare of resentment. Her kid was seven months old. She was tired of breastfeeding, tired of being wedded to the pump and rock-hard boobs and clogs and leaky nipples. But somehow, it had become this unspoken thing that she nurse until Matthew was a year.

As she took Matthew into her arms and tried to push him toward her nipple, he arched away with a grunt. “Come on, buddy,” she crooned.

Matthew didn’t want to be held. He squirmed away from her so strongly, it was like she was trying to pin down an adult cat. She could feel her milk letting down.

“Matthew,” she said sternly, grabbing the upper half of his torso and shoving his head hard into her cleavage. “Come on. Just eat.”

Matthew arched away again. Lauren let out a beleaguered sigh. Calm. Calm. Calm, she tried to mantra—a lactation consultant had told her to repeat that for better milk production. She was just frustrated because Piper blew her off. Maybe there was a good reason. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she hadn’t gotten the messages.

Nursing just wasn’t working. Lauren’s boobs were sticky with leaked milk, and none of it was getting in Matthew’s mouth. “Maybe I’ll pump,” she announced to the baby—and also to Graham, who was standing in the doorway, watching. “I’ll make a bottle with frozen stuff,” she announced, then stood, still holding the baby. “C’mon, buddy.”

“I’ll take him,” Graham volunteered. “You’re holding him kind of tight.”

“No, I’m not,” Lauren said.

“When you held him that tightly the other day, he started crying.”

Lauren stared at him. She didn’t remember that. Still, she pressed the baby into his arms. “I’ll be just a sec.”

Graham’s petulant expression transformed when Matthew was against his chest. “Hey, buddy,” he whispered adoringly.

Lauren strode to the fridge to fetch frozen breast milk and a bottle. Finding the breast milk was easy—she had a lot stocked away. But there wasn’t a single clean bottle. Nor were there clean pump parts.

“Damn it,” she whispered. She yanked the pump parts and a bottle from the dishwasher racks—they’d forgotten to actually run it last night—and ran them under the tap.