Milk and Oranges

The first thing Grace consumed wasn’t food. Not really. Milk, thin and clinical, siphoned through a tube that vanished into her stomach like an afterthought. Eight weeks early, she’d arrived crumpled and furious, her skin the raw red of someone too new, her lungs collapsing inward like paper bags squeezed too hard. Her parents named her Grace because it sounded strong, solid, unyielding. But there wasn’t strength in her then. There was a hole in her heart—a thief, silent and cunning, already stealing from her before she’d even opened her eyes. It didn’t kill her then. Not yet.

The first real taste, the one she could still feel in the back of her mouth when she thought hard enough, was toast. White bread, perfectly golden, butter slipping into every pore, honey dripping in uneven streaks. Mum’s hands were quick, cutting the slice into neat triangles, her voice soft but rushed. ‘Don’t let it stick to your fingers, love.’ Grace hadn’t listened. The honey clung anyway, sweet and warm, and she’d licked it clean, watching Mum from across the table. Her hair was falling loose, her eyes heavy with the kind of tired that lived in bones, but she’d smiled all the same. ‘Hurry now. School’s waiting.’ A kiss on the forehead as they left, the faint tang of coffee on her lips.

By fourteen, food had become a secret. Apple cores stuffed into the bin when no one was looking. Chocolate bars snapped into meticulous squares, as if rationing could make them last longer, make them mean less. Dinner was a stage, and Grace played the part of full-bellied daughter with a script she recited too often. ‘You’re growing so fast,’ Dad said one night, beaming like her height was an achievement he could claim. But Grace didn’t feel proud. She felt wrong. Heavy in ways that weren’t about weight, jagged in ways she couldn’t smooth out. The night Mum found her in the kitchen, the half-eaten sandwich trembling in her hand, neither of them spoke. Mum just sat, her knees creaking against the tiles, her arm resting against Miriam’s back like a question she didn’t need answered. ‘Food’s not your enemy,’ she said eventually, her voice a whisper soft enough to break. Grace wanted to believe her. She really did.

She met Owen over pasta. Tagliatelle, tangled and dripping in cream sauce, mushrooms sliced so fine they melted like air. The restaurant was loud, cramped, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as authentic by turning the lights too low and overcharging for the wine. He laughed too loud, too easily, his head tipped back like he couldn’t help himself. She liked that about him. When he raised his glass and said, ‘To us,’ Grace echoed it, a little shy, a little giddy. For dessert, they shared tiramisu, spooning it into each other’s mouths like idiots, grinning the whole time.

Years later, after the wedding, they ate cold pizza in a motel room that smelled faintly of mildew. Her white dress was a crumpled heap in the corner, her feet blistered from dancing too hard in heels that didn’t fit right. Owen fed her a slice, greasy and cheap, kissed her with sauce still on his lips. ‘This is it,’ he said, his voice soft and certain. ‘This is all I want.’ She believed him then, and maybe for years after.

Grief tasted like sandwiches that had sat too long on platters, their edges curling inward. It tasted like tea steeped to bitterness, poured into styrofoam cups that squeaked against her fingers. At her mother’s funeral, the thief in her chest stirred again, bold and insistent. Neighbours brought scones, dry and dense, muttering about how young her mother had been. ‘Unfair,’ they said, as though fairness had ever been part of the equation.

There was another kind of grief, quieter but just as sharp. The day Owen held her hand in the doctor’s office, his thumb tracing patterns into her palm, and they learned he couldn’t have kids. On the drive home, the silence pressed heavier than the news itself. That night, she scrambled eggs, the act mechanical, almost hopeful. Neither of them ate. She threw her plate away before bed.

At thirty, she packed a peanut butter sandwich in her bag and walked into a sperm bank alone. Owen had offered to come, but she’d said no. Some things were hers to carry. She sat in the waiting room, chewing dry bread that stuck to the roof of her mouth, wondering if the nurses could tell she was nervous just by looking at her. She finished the sandwich anyway.

Pregnancy was oranges. Bright, sharp, endless oranges. She ate them by the bag, the juice sticky on her chin, her hands always faintly citrus-scented. Owen peeled them for her in the evenings, his fingers careful and stained. ‘You’re glowing,’ he’d say, even when she knew she looked like hell. After Caleb was born, the first thing she ate was a jelly cup. Orange, wobbling on her spoon, so sweet it felt like punishment. Owen laughed when she grimaced. ‘Real food’s on its way,’ he promised.

Motherhood was toast crusts and coffee gone cold in the mug. It was half-melted ice cream, Caleb’s sticky fingers offering her a bite, his grin wide with pride when she took it. When he fell off his bike and skinned his knee, he cried until she handed him a biscuit. He stopped then, sniffling, and held it out to her. ‘We can share, Mum.’

By the time Caleb was sixteen, Grace could feel her heart more than she should. The thief had grown bolder, no longer content to sit quiet in the background. The doctors told her to slow down. She didn’t. Not when Caleb slammed doors, and Owen’s face was lined with worry that felt permanent. One night, after an argument that left her shaking, she ate an entire tub of ice cream in the dark. The next morning, Caleb made pancakes, the smell filling the house before she could apologise.

The last family dinner was roast chicken, Caleb grinning across the table after getting into university. Owen carved the bird with care, his pride quiet but shining. Grace smiled, ignored the uneven rhythm of her pulse. That night, she crept back to the kitchen and ate a drumstick cold, the grease slick on her fingers, the silence pressing in.

When the chest pains came, they weren’t dramatic. Just pressure, heavy and slow, like something was leaning on her ribs. Owen’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his hand gripping hers when he could. At the hospital, the soup they gave her was bland and tepid. Owen fed it to her anyway, his hands trembling with every spoonful. ‘Just a little more,’ he said, his voice cracking. She wanted to tell him it was fine, that she was ready. But the words stayed stuck.

Her life began in a hospital, milk through a tube. It ended in one too, lukewarm soup and Owen’s hand holding tight. Grief has a taste. So does love. She’d known both, in every bite.