My dad packed my lunch every morning for as long as I could remember. The only day he missed was the day he died. So when his old blue lunchbox appeared outside my door the morning after his funeral, I knew someone had left it there for a reason.
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My dad raised me alone after my mother left us for her wealthy boss when I was four. He never said much about her. He only tightened his jaw whenever someone asked and changed the subject before I could study his face too closely.
His alarm rang every morning at 4:30. By five, he was dressed in worn construction boots, pouring coffee into a dented thermos, and leaving to build houses for other families. Before he left, though, he always packed my lunch.
When I was five, he cut sandwiches into hearts and dinosaurs because I hated crusts. In elementary school, he arranged apple slices like flowers and made pancakes shaped like smiling faces. By middle school, handwritten notes appeared between the napkins.
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