Page 40 of Milk
I turned away from the screen. I could barely bear to look at Tiffany, let alone remember the joy I saw on her face. I’d snuffed it so quickly. To punish myself, I focused on another source of pain.
Pulled open the tall metal cabinet behind my desk. It creaked like a tomb opening. Inside were rows of black leather-bound journals. My father’s, and behind them, wrapped in soft pale redmoleskin, there were older ones. My mother’s. The pages were yellowed by time and stained with pencil dust and thumbprints.
I hadn’t opened them since I took over this place years ago. I pulled one from the bottom of the stack. The cover smelled faintly of perfume and mildew. I sat down, spine hunched, as I opened to the first page.
March 3rd.
He says the injections are temporary. That I won’t feel sick after this week. But I know he’s lying. My stomach is turning. Something is wrong with the milk. I can feel it inside me. The baby, oh God, the baby is moving too much. Like he’s panicking, too. He wants out. I wish I could take you out, baby. I wish I could take us both away from here, but I can’t. At least, I don’t think so. I’ll keep trying to think of something. I can’t stay here. We can’t stay here.
It will kill us.
That last line was underlined twice. Trenches so deep that my mother tried to cut the paper with a pencil. I read those lines again. They were written for her ‘baby.’ I swallowed and flipped ahead.
March 29th
They told me I’m overreacting. That I’m just hormonal, but the other women are all gone. Where are they? Why am I the last one? They told me they had to “euthanize the unviable.” I know what that means, but I can’t believe it. It can’t be true, can it? They were just like me. Humans. Women. Could my husband truly do that? He could. He has. It just feels … surreal.
I can’t breathe. I can’t eat. I keep seeing that word written on my chart. Unviable. Unviable. Unviable.
She had filled a third of the page with it, written in clear mania. Her careful pencil lettering was undone by the end. The next entry was normal again. Days later.
April 4th
I dreamt of him. The baby. He wasn’t born yet. It was a boy. He looked up at me. Somehow, I could see him inside me. His eyes were already blue like his father’s. Nothing like his sister. She has my hazel eyes. That terrified me.
I don’t want him to be like his father. I don’t want him to stay here. I want him to be free. I want him to live. Will they kill me after the baby is born? Probably.
Will they kill the baby? Or raise him? Like a science project? Like a lab rat? I can’t even bear to think of it. I will witness it, powerless to help, or I won’t be around to protect him. It’s too much.
There must be a way out.
And what of her? What will they tell her? She’s still so small. I don’t want her to grow up wondering why her mother vanished. I want her to forget. Maybe that's kinder.
April 5th
I made a decision. I found a way out. There’s bleach in the storage closet. It’s locked, but the janitor leaves it unattended sometimes for a bathroom break. I just need ten seconds to slip in and grab his card from the cleaning cart. Open it up. They will never see it coming. I need to do it. Quickly. I can’t hesitate or they’ll stop me.
That’s the only way out for me and for my baby. They won’t get you. They won’t. I promise.
I feel bad for my daughter, leaving her here with him. But I can’t help her. If I want any longer, I won’t be able to help the other baby either. If I go now, she might never remember me. At least I can give her that kindness.
Mommy loves you, sweet girl. Be good. Be brave. Forget me.
The final words were written in shaky lettering. The page ended in a smear. The rest of the journal was empty. Blank pages that said too much. I dropped the book onto the desk, palms suddenly cold. I felt like a child again, small, hated, and locked in a legacy I never asked for. My mother tried to set us both free.
She was free. I wasn’t. Part of me was angry, not just at my father, but at her. She left me. It was wrong to think that way. I tried to drown that voice.
I reached for another journal—this one thicker, heavier. My father’s. The leather was cracked along the spine. Inside, his handwriting was blocky, confident. Angry. I flipped to that date. After my mom found her way out.
April 6th
Fucking coward. Selfish bitch. She tried to kill my son, to escape this life in the most destructive way possible. A short-sighted cunt. She’ll pay for that. Once my son doesn’t need her milk, I’ll take care of her. She’s a failed cow like the rest of them, but she has responsibilities.
Lucky for her, she went into labor before she got the bleach open. Lucky for her, the child is alive. That bitch was the crown jewel of our research. She was supposed to be the first success story of our enhanced breeding program. The blueprint for another way to do things. Instead, she’ll be fertilizer in a year, maybe two. The child has to be healthy. I need proof that our milk is good for babies, and makes them grow into capable men.
One of her punishments starts now. No more phone calls. No more access. The bitchgets the knowledge she’s on a clock and neither of her children will remember her.
I had to call in a favor to get the daughter off-site. Can’t have her sticking around. It’s been years since the now teenager saw her mother. In time, she’ll forget what the heifer looked like. The girl’s too old to forget entirely, but young enough to be redirected.
