When I was eleven, I’d ask my mom if I could have coffee. “Certainly not,” she’d reply. “That’s for grown-ups.” But when she slipped out of the room, I’d take a sip and, if there was time, a drag from the cigarette she’d left burning in the ashtray. It was the coffee I wanted most, though. She always whitened it with Milnot canned milk instead of cream. When she went to tend to the washing machine or answer the door, I’d strike, taking two generous slurps, then adding a shot of Milnot to make up the difference. I wondered how I could get more.