Martin Kaelin She opened the refrigerator and took the milk out. Whole. She preferred skim, but the baby needed the fat. It was still dark in the kitchen, even at 7:15 AM. She knew that the sun would not break over the hill behind the house until half past eight, even in the dead of winter. He used to like that, it made the babies sleep late, he said. He would take every minute he could get. She poured the milk into the three sippy cups, one red, (well, pink now after so many washings,) one green, one blue, and a quarter cup into the coffee mug that she had not packed for herself. She shuffled over to the silverware drawer by habit and opened it, looking out the back window as her hand reached in for a teaspoon. Her eyes ran over the tree house that he had built, the swing set as her fingers came up empty. She looked into the empty drawer. [Jesus, girl. Empty. You packed all the stainless away two days ago.] Over to the cabinet, opened the door, pulled out the jar of Cafe Bustelo, his favorite, walked back to the counter. She stopped, holding the plastic jar in her hands. Felt the smoothness of the label, felt the broken edge on the lid. 24 ounces from the big bulk store a county over. Her finger ran over the crack in the lid, sharp and imperfect; a good seal was no longer possible since the morning that their three year old had knocked it off the kitchen counter. 24 ounces. What was that, even, an ounce? That should have lasted them a year or more. He had been so upset at the baby, but she had calmed everyone, like she always did. She could put it in a bag, and besides, what did he care? That was her domain. She would put it in a bag. She meant to put it in a bag. Her finger ran over the sharp break in the plastic. Over and over in the dim light of the Kentucky predawn. Finally, she popped the lid open with a quick motion of her thumb, as she had every morning for five years, and shook what she thought was a teaspoon into the milk in her mug. She was not fond of this Mexican coffee, but he liked it. He insisted on it, said it reminded him of home. She had given him that. She knew that any comfort here was a blessing.