The sandwich was half finished.
The thermos was sitting beside me.
And suddenly, twelve years of ordinary mornings no longer made sense.
Still, I finished packing the lunch.
Two sandwiches.
Apple slices.
Coffee.
And the note.
I wrote it exactly as I always did.
Folded it.
Placed it underneath the napkin.
Then I put the bag on the counter.
Edward came downstairs at 6:50.
He kissed my forehead.
Picked up the lunch.
“I’ll be home around six.”
“Okay.”
Then he left.
I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee long after his truck disappeared.
Twelve years.
Twelve years of empty lunchboxes.
I had always treated them as proof that the food had been eaten.
Now I had no idea what they meant.
And then there was the suit.
Edward owned exactly one suit.
Dark navy.
The same suit he had worn when we married twelve years earlier.
Construction workers don’t have many reasons to own formal clothing, so he wore it to funerals, weddings, and once to Jamie’s school awards ceremony.
