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.
There was no sandwich.
I carried it inside, locked the door, and placed it on my kitchen table. My hands shook against the metal latch.
Then I opened it.
There was no sandwich.
No fruit.
No folded note beneath a napkin.
A photograph had slipped from my hands and landed face-up beside me.
Instead, a brown package rested in the center, tied with plain string. Beside it lay a bus ticket for that afternoon.
I untied the string.
When I saw what was inside, I screamed and sank to the kitchen floor.
A photograph had slipped from my hands and landed face-up beside me.
Behind them stood an apartment building.
A teenage girl stood beside Dad in the photograph. She looked sixteen. She had my eyes, my left cheek dimple, and the same head tilt visible in every one of my childhood pictures.
Dad looked thin but happy.
Behind them stood an apartment building.
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