“Do you know why you are given milk?” somebody suddenly said from behind us.

We turned around.

“Hi!” Lou said.

“Hi,” Marguerite said, nodding to her.

She had also just received her meal and held a bowl only one-quarter full in her hands.

“Do you want to sit with us?” Lou said.

I scooted over a bit on the bench to make room for her.

But Marguerite didn’t move.

“You know that the milk is for the children?” she said.

I looked at the glass I had in my hand.

“No. I didn’t know that. Obviously.”

“That’s why you only received one glass. The rest of us don’t get any.”

“I see.” I put my glass down on the table and quickly slid it over to Lou.

“Are they both for me?” she asked.

I nodded. Felt how the blood rushed to my face. “The milk is for the children,” I repeated softly.

“But I don’t mind sharing,” Lou said.

“Thank you,” I said. “But it is apparently for you.” I stared over at Marguerite as I said it.

She held her head tilted to one side, studying me, as if I were a stupid little man-child.

“Happy now?” I wanted to say, but stopped myself. It was better to keep my mouth shut.

“I don’t need two,” Lou said, pushing the glass toward me again.

And I wanted milk, I did. It was cold for sure, would cool my throat, my stomach. It was the only thing we received that was cold. So I took it, quickly. “You’re nice, Lou,” I said.

Marguerite emitted a tiny sound. I didn’t care. My daughter knew how to share, had learned to share. That meant something, anyway. I took a sip of the milk, waiting for the coldness, but it had already had time to become lukewarm. We’ve used up all the cold, I thought.

It was Marguerite’s fault. She poked her nose in without knowing anything about us.

August was only a year old. Lou had never really experienced having a sibling. A baby in the house didn’t count. A baby didn’t argue about sweets, a baby didn’t want to have the biggest piece of cake. All the same, or perhaps for that very reason, she was good at sharing.

“Have a seat,” Lou said to Marguerite.

“She probably wants to eat in peace,” I said.

“Why’s that?” Lou said to Marguerite, who sat down. Or more precisely—took her seat. On the bench beside Lou, an appropriate distance away from her, as if she weren’t really together with us.

Silence. I didn’t want to be the first one to speak. But it was very quiet. Perhaps I should say something.

She didn’t.