A Glass of Milk

by Mina Yun, Canyon Crest Academy 25'

A Glass of Milk 

Art by Yuri "Ticket" Lee, Del Norte High School, 26'

9 a.m. 

Dalia turned her eyes away from the window, scanning instead her insipid but tidy room. There was no single sock or clothing on the floor, or a scrunched-up towel hung over the back of a chair. There was no clattering of dishes or shattering of glass. There was no sticky stain of spilled milk anywhere. Dalia stared at the cake, the big ‘77’ still placed perfectly in the center, on top of the creamy brown frosting. She wasn’t a fan of chocolate, nor was she turning 77. ‘The nurses must have made a mistake.’ 

Dalia sighed as she opened her phone to her call list, Molly’s name still out of sight. 

Molly’s room was a mess. The girls had wanted to have a sleepover for months, and Molly happily volunteered to host it at her place. Barbie dolls scattered the sheets; different skirts, dresses, and shoes stuck between the wall and bed. What was once a plate of freshly baked cookies was now a crumbed mess, and cups of milk were spilled over in every corner of the room. The floor was barely visible, covered by toys and stuffed animals. Yet the girls giggled underneath a fort made out of pillows and blankets, amidst the disarray, which they seemed to be immune to. 

“Girls, it’s almost 10. Wash up and get ready for bed.” 

“Just a few more minutes, please?” 

“You’ve been playing since school got out. It’s getting late.” 

“Please, mom. It’s our first sleepover.” Molly whined. 

“Alright, fine.10:30. And that’s final.” 

Dalia cleaned up the spilled cups and closed the door behind her. 

12:00 p.m. Swiping through the channels, Dalia slumped against her bed. There was nothing amusing that sparked her interest, and she sighed before switching off the television. A distant murmuring caught her attention. Outside the window, a lady was pushing a wheelchair with an elderly woman on it. A balloon swaying against the slight breeze on the handle: ‘Just beat cancer!’ The lady was skipping through the parking lot, exclaiming her joy as she seated the elderly woman in their car. The vehicle swerved its way out of the lot, disappearing into the far distance. 

The hospital was silent. Distant and detached. Cold and silent. Dalia opted to stay by Molly’s side through the night. 

“I can’t fall asleep,” Molly whispered, readjusting herself underneath the thin sheets, “I’m hungry.” 

“I saw some cartons of milk in the food machine. Do you want me to get one for you?”

The corners of Molly’s lips lifted, delighting Dalia as she had missed her daughter’s smiles for the past months. 

“That’d be perfect.” 

Walking back from the long hallway, Dalia stopped to warm the milk in a microwave, just as Molly liked it. When she returned to the room, a smile appeared once again on Molly’s face as she reached out for the carton. Her hands were shaking more than usual; the medication must have been messing with her hormones. Inevitably, she spilled here and there as her fingers trembled to hold the carton in place. Dalia could only look for so long without showing sympathy. She took the carton, held it in place, and helped Molly drink in peace. 

6:30 p.m. A sudden knock on her door, and excitement began building in Dalia’s shrunk stomach. A short nurse walked in with ketchup stains on her uniform and a tray of cold dinner. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Bunker?” The young lady questioned. 

“No…no nothing is wrong. Thank you.” Dalia responded, forcing a soft smile across her cheeks. As the nurse left, Dalia looked down at the tray with disgust. Soggy turkey and ham sandwich, canned tomatoes, five strawberries that looked too stale to eat, and a crumbly muffin with a taped note, “Happy Birthday, Dalia!” It was a small act, yet an appreciated one and Dalia ate the muffin gratefully. 

Blindfolded, Dalia was led through the living room, down the stairs, and into the dining hall where she sat patiently. Standing close behind her, Molly slowly untied the black scarf, her fingers slightly shaking, revealing the steak, asparagus, and mashed potatoes on a perfect place setting, garnished with a fresh purple orchid, all of Dalia’s favorites. A glass of milk sat on the left side of the plate. Where Molly had learned to do all this, only God would know. The first bite melted into a taste of heaven, and Dalia closed her eyes, savoring the exquisite sensation on her tastebuds. The steak was cooked medium rare– just how she liked it. The mashed potatoes were soft, creamy, and buttery. 

“My baby’s all grown up.” Dalia smiled, looking at her daughter with pride and love. “Happy Birthday, Mother. I’m glad I got to see you like this one last time.” By month’s end, Molly packed up her suitcases and left for her studies. 

Dalia’s room was undisturbed all day, except for when the nurses came in to bring her meals. Not a single sock lay on the middle of the floor. Not a single towel hung over the back of a chair. Not a single toy was out of its basket. Not a single spilled-glass in sight. Everything was immaculate. Though she wished it wasn’t.

10:00 p.m. A light knock on the door was followed by a creak in the opening of a door. “Mother! Happy Birthday!” 

Wearing blue scrubs, her hair tied back in a clean bun, she walked towards the edge of the small bed, holding a bag. Inside were flowers, cookies, and a carton of milk. Her mother smelled the lisianthus, smiled, and placed them in a vase next to her bed. Molly’s fingers still trembled as she poured the milk for her mother, who looked at her with a sad smile teeming with all the unconditional love in the world. 

“I’m sorry for coming so late. Emergency patient came in.” She took her mother’s hand in hers. “I missed you.” 

As she leaned in to hug her frail mother, her elbow bumped the glass off the bedside table. 

Looking at the puddle on the floor, Dalia shed a tear, one of happiness and contentment. She finally felt at home again. 

(1036 words)