For twenty years, my dad quietly packed my lunch every morning before leaving for construction work—the day after his funeral, I found one more lunchbox by my front door and went pale.
Lily watched me without asking for comfort.
I lowered the letter.
Lily watched me without asking for comfort.
That restraint made her seem younger.
"I'm angry," I said.
"At him?"
Lily began crying quietly beside me.
"A little. Mostly at her."
I nodded toward the living room. "But none of that belongs to you."
Lily began crying quietly beside me.
The next morning, Cal came to the apartment carrying a small paper bag. Inside were Dad's watch, Lily's graduation forms, and the metal sandwich cutter he had used since I was a child.
Over the next month, I helped Lily prepare.
"He left these with me," Cal said. "The watch and forms are for Lily. The cutter is for both of you."
A note was wrapped around its handle.
"After graduation, make lunch together. Don't let either girl eat alone."
I looked at Cal. "You knew all of this?"
"Only pieces," he answered. "Your dad thought the rest should come from him."
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