I remember those first weeks back at the mill, after my maternity leave. Not a long leave, mind you. Two weeks was all they gave us, back then. Bills don't pay themselves, not when you've got a new mouth to feed. My husband, bless his heart, he worked hard, but his pay envelope barely stretched to cover the rent and the groceries. So, I went back to the packing line, the hum of the machinery a dull roar in my ears, still half-asleep from the night feedings. My body, it didn’t care that I was back at work. It had its own rhythms, its own demands, a biological imperative that trumped any company policy. One Tuesday, I was in a meeting with Mr. Henderson – a man whose suit always smelled faintly of stale pipe tobacco and ambition – going over the production numbers. We were talking about efficiencies, about output, about the bottom line. My mind, though, it kept drifting. I could almost hear the tiny suckling sounds, feel the pressure in my breasts. I’d forgotten my pads, those little cotton discs meant to soak up the overflow. Just completely slipped my mind in the rush of getting out the door, baby crying, trying to force down a slice of toast. You know how it is. Suddenly, a cold dampness bloomed on my silk blouse. Not a trickle, more like two distinct, widening circles, dark as tea stains. Right there, for everyone to see. The fabric, it clung to my skin, a cold, shameful flag. My face burned, a fire that started in my cheeks and spread down to my collarbones. Mr. Henderson, he paused mid-sentence, his gaze flicking to my chest for just a fraction of a second too long before snapping back to the spreadsheet. He didn't say anything, but the air in the room thickened, became heavy with unsaid things. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated mortification. Is that too strong a word? Does everyone feel that prickle of shame, that sense of being utterly exposed? I excused myself shortly after, mumbled something about a sudden headache. Went to the ladies' room and just stood there, staring at myself in the mirror. My reflection, it looked tired, haunted even. The wet spots, they were so obvious. It felt like my body had betrayed me, broadcast a private, intimate fact to a room full of men in suits. Like a public announcement of my fundamental, inconvenient womanhood. It wasn't just milk; it was a visible sign of my divided loyalties, my mind pulled between the roar of the machines and the quiet needs of a new baby. And for years, decades really, that feeling lingered. Not just the embarrassment, but a kind of quiet resentment. Resentment for a system that demanded you be one person at home and another, entirely different, perfectly dry person at work. It felt like an imposition, a constant low-level cognitive dissonance. My body was a factory, yes, but it wasn't *their* factory. It had its own output, its own schedule, and sometimes, it just overflowed. Sometimes, it just… did what it was designed to do, even when it wasn't convenient. Even when it stained a good silk blouse.