She’d struggled to breastfeed the twins from the beginning. Both Callie and Tara had been good feeders. They’d latched on in the exact way all the breastfeeding literature described. She could remember looking at other mothers in the hospital having trouble feeding and couldn’t understand why it was so hard for them. She was ashamed to admit that a small part of her thought she was somehow superior because her babies could feed.

Now she wanted to go back in time and hit herself over the head with a breast pump. She wanted to reach back and comfort those mothers, shield their eyes from her smug face as she sat and nursed her daughters. Because now she got it. She bloody well got it. Breastfeeding was not the easiest, most natural thing in the world. It was fucking hard. And her success the first two times had nothing to do with some innate ability she possessed as a mother. It was dumb luck.

And so, the twins had been supplemented with more and more formula from the day she came home from hospital until eventually, her abysmal supply of milk dried up. But she hadn’t cried about it. And she hadn’t felt like a failure. She’d celebrated. Because fuck she’d missed wine.

She felt her phone buzzing in the back pocket of her jeans and slipped it out. It was Jill, her mother-in-law. As Mimi slid her thumb across the screen to answer, Elliot opened her mouth and let out a huge wail, as though she’d been waiting for the right moment.

*

Jill

Dear Frank,

Three Hail Marys this morning. Sitting up here in bed. That’s all I could manage for my sins. I suspect if I went to a priest he wouldn’t think that was enough. And I’m supposed to get down on my knees to do it. But I was tired. And cranky. So three was the magic number today. Besides, I know what you would say: ‘Why are you bothering with that, woman? God isn’t sitting around waiting to count your prayers. He’s got better things to do.’

But I don’t know how else I’m supposed to atone.

Love,

Jill

*

Jill folded up the piece of paper and placed it on her bedside table. Later she’d put it in an envelope, seal it up, address, stamp and post it. A waste of time, but she’d still do it. When she first started, the letters were longer. In them, she would beg for forgiveness. She would tell detailed stories about her days, about the boys. Sometimes as she wrote, spots of ink would be smudged with her tears. But that hadn’t happened for some time now.