Chapter 1

Excessive breast milk during lactation had become a major headache for me. So I posted a message in the Whatsapp group, offering to donate it for free to any baby in need. Soon, a father from the group reached out to me.

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My name is Evelyn Langley, a single lactating mother with a five-month-old son, Oliver.

My milk supply was unusually abundant—far more than Oliver could consume. Every time, the engorgement became painful, forcing me to use a breast pump to express the excess.

The expressed milk went to waste since Oliver didn’t need it, and I didn’t bother storing it. Whenever he was hungry, I simply nursed him directly. So every batch I pumped ended up being discarded.

Breast milk is highly nutritious, packed with essential nutrients from my body. Watching it go down the drain felt like such a shame.

That’s why I posted in the group chat—if anyone wanted breast milk, they could contact me directly. With my oversupply, feeding an extra baby wouldn’t be an issue.

That afternoon, a stranger from the group added me on the messaging app, with the note: Interested in breast milk.

I immediately knew they were inquiring about donations, so I accepted the request.

The profile picture showed a blue sky, revealing nothing about the person. The gender was listed as male.

Probably the baby’s father.

I figured the mother might be too exhausted from childcare to handle this, leaving the task of sourcing milk to the dad.

With that thought, it all made sense.

After adding me, the person remained silent, so I took the initiative and sent a message.

"Are you inquiring about breast milk?"

A reply came shortly after—confirming it—followed by another question.

"Are you healthy?"

The bluntness of the question caught me off guard. Am I healthy? The directness rubbed me the wrong way, as if implying I had some hidden illness. It didn’t sit well with me.

But then I reconsidered. This father was just being cautious, making sure I didn’t have any conditions—like hepatitis—that could risk transmitting anything to his baby.

Fair enough. Breast milk goes straight into a child’s body, so quality assurance was reasonable.

I quickly reassured him there were no issues.

To ease his doubts, I even went to my room and snapped photos of my prenatal medical records, sending them as proof.

He seemed convinced and then asked, "How much for the milk?"

I hadn’t planned on selling it. My intention was simply to share with babies who needed it but couldn’t get enough from their own mothers.

"I’m not selling. If you want it, I’ll express it fresh. Will you pick it up, or should I ship it? If shipping, you’d need to cover the frozen delivery costs."

"No need. I’ll come get it tomorrow. I live right above you."