These attacks gave me a sense of satisfaction. I wanted Freya to feel guilty for leaving Maggie and me. I wanted her to regret her trip to Sonoma so much that she never left us again. The trolls were saying what I couldn’t.

“I thought I might try breastfeeding her,” Freya said.

“Really?” I asked. “Do you even have any milk left?”

“It’s just for the photo,” Freya said. “Even if she won’t latch, you can make it look like she’s nursing.”

The shoot was damage control. Maggie was just a prop.

“Sure,” I complied. Because I was invested in Freya’s celebrity.

She dragged herself off the sofa. “I need to shower and do my makeup. Make sure Maggie’s hungry so she takes the breast.”

• • •

Two hours later, Freya reappeared looking fresh and natural. Her hair was softly tousled, and you could barely tell that she had used a curling iron. Her face appeared wholesome and makeup-free; I knew it took a lot of skill (and a lot of makeup) to create that look. She wore a white eyelet peasant top: the epitome of demure sexiness.

“Let’s do this,” she said, lifting Maggie from the bouncy seat that kept her placid. It was the first time she had touched her daughter since her return.

“Support her head,” I said automatically.

Freya gave the child a cuddle and a kiss and then said, “I don’t like her outfit. Does she have anything white?”

White was a highly impractical color for a onesie, but I recalled seeing a summery dress in the nursery. “I think so.”

“Actually, maybe she should be naked. Skin on skin is good for kids, right?”

“Right.”

Freya lay the baby down and unbuttoned her onesie. I stood by with my camera, watching the businesslike precision with which Freya undressed her tiny daughter. Then she yanked down her top, exposing her perfect, non-lactating breast. She picked up the baby and pressed her face toward it.

Maggie had always been bottle-fed. She had not even taken to the pacifier that I’d offered her numerous times. So the human nipple Freya was now waving in her face was not of interest. I took a few shots, but the baby turned her head away, squirming in her mother’s arms.

“Come on, Maggie,” Freya cajoled, “take it.”

But Maggie let out a squawk of defiance, her little body stiffening with irritation. As I pressed the shutter button, Freya tightened her grip, pressing the back of the baby’s head toward her breast. “Do it, you little brat.”

And then, she shook her.