My breast milk had soaked through my shirt and I hadn't even felt it until a man called me out — I stood there apologizing to him, until my friend came around the aisle and decided to teach him how to speak to a woman who just gave birth.

I apologized to him three times in about six seconds.

"Cover yourself.

Nobody needs to see that."

Full volume, in the cereal aisle.

Someone near the bakery turned around.

Six weeks postpartum…

It was the first time out of the house alone since the hospital.

Dan had Nora on his chest when I left and told me to take my time, and I was still out the door in under four minutes.

Denim shorts, gray tank top, a flannel over it I hadn't buttoned.

I'd showered and put my hair up.

That felt like an achievement.

Maria was meeting me there.

She'd texted twice — stuck behind a truck, then *5 minutes, I swear* — because she'd been trying to see me since the birth and I'd canceled on her four times.

I had bread and a gallon of milk in the cart and I was comparing unit prices on two boxes of cereal when he came up the aisle.

He stopped much closer than he needed to.

"Oh my God."

I thought he'd dropped something.

Then he said the thing about covering myself, and I still didn't understand.

I took both sides of the flannel and pulled them open to look down at myself.

Two wet circles.

My milk had let down in the cereal aisle and I hadn't felt it happen.

I'd been in that store eleven minutes.

So there I was, holding my own shirt open, looking down at my chest, with a stranger's face eight inches from mine.

"I'm sorry — I didn't — I'm so sorry."

"You people just do whatever you want now."