Postpartum Ice

Summary

Six months postpartum, and my husband had told me nineteen times that since I couldn't produce breast milk, I wasn't fit to be a mother.

As our son, Leo, screamed with hunger, my husband, Landon, forgot to pick up the formula from the building's package room for the nineteenth time.

But in the pocket of his coat, I found a receipt from a rush courier service.

The order details were stark: Painkillers for cramps and a heating pad for my baby.

When Landon saw me holding it, he snatched it back, his voice as cold as ice. "Leo's formula has a long shelf life. Regular shipping is fine."