Ten years ago, my wife said she was going to buy milk and left me with five children, including a baby who still smelled of talc and formula. He never came back. This Mother’s Day, she stumbled like she had only left one afternoon, and my eldest daughter did something I will never forget.
She was in the women’s aisle of the supermarket, with a pack of compresses in her hand, trying to remember what kind Maya said worked best for her sisters.
A teenager and her mother were in front of me in line. The girl was red with shame. The mother bowed, said something sweetly and the girl smiled. I looked at my basket and thought, Natalie should have been the one to teach this to our daughters.
My third daughter, June, had started her period that morning.
I was in the women’s aisle of the supermarket with a pack of compresses in my hand.
I’d done it before with Maya and then Ellie, so I knew how it worked. Compresses, chocolate, ibuprofen, something hot, something sweet and an attitude as if none of this is strange.
The cashier looked at the basket and then at me. “Is this the first time?” he asked.
