She asked the doctor when she could wean him. "I am behind in my bills, you know," she explained, "especially yours, doctor. I'd better get to work."
"I can't conscientiously advise you to do anything of the sort," he answered.
"But why not? Most babies are put on a bottle nowadays."
"This one is a delicate little fellow—not five pounds at birth. You want him to get strong—mother's milk is the best medicine."
"That settles it," she said slowly. "How long will it be? Six months?"
"Yes, six months anyway, perhaps more—perhaps a year. It depends on how he does. I won't disguise it from you—he's worried me once or twice."
A year! She didn't know a child was ever nursed a year. A year more of humbleness to Jim, of asking money from her brother, now called big Al, of fear that Mr. Kane might get annoyed and leave, of contriving and skimping and bill dodging. Another year of "womanly" womanhood, clinging to males for support.
The doctor saw her disappointment. "It's your sex' share of the world's work, you know," he said, "your duty to society."
"I have a baby and we're poor. If I'd had none, we'd be well off this moment," she said sharply. "If I really have done a duty to society why does society punish me for it?"
"I don't know," said the doctor.