I smiled slightly.
“Adults can feel both things at the same time.”
Jamie nodded.
“Okay.”
Then he went back to his homework.
About thirty seconds later, without looking up, he asked,
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to keep throwing Mom’s lunches away?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Jamie kept writing.
“Her sandwiches are really good.”
The next morning, I packed Edward’s lunch.
Two sandwiches.
Apple slices.
Black coffee.
But I put them in a different bag.
He didn’t need the old construction lunchbox anymore.
Then I sat down with an index card.
For the first time in twelve years, writing the note felt different.
Before, I believed Edward would read it during lunch and then continue with the day I thought he was living.
Now I knew he would probably read it twice.
Fold it.
Keep it.
So I wrote:
I know who you are now.
I want to know everything else.
