That tradition started during our first week of marriage.

I remember looking at his plain brown lunch bag one morning and thinking it looked too practical.

Food.

Napkin.

Coffee.

Nothing about it said, I thought about you while you were still sleeping.

So I grabbed an index card and wrote something small.

I don’t remember exactly what.

Probably something simple like:

Have a good day. Love you.

I folded it and tucked it underneath the napkin.

That evening, Edward mentioned it.

“That note made me smile.”

Then he admitted he had read it twice.

So I wrote another one the next morning.

And another.

And somehow, that became twelve years.

I never saved copies.

Sometimes I wish I had.

But every morning, I would sit at the kitchen counter and decide what small piece of our life belonged on that card.

When our son Jamie was little, he used to sit on the counter and watch me write.

Once he learned to spell, he started adding his own messages.

BE SAFE DAD.

BRING PIZZA HOME.

I LOVE YOU DAD. FROM JAMIE.

Every evening, Edward came home carrying an empty lunchbox.

He would leave it on the kitchen counter, kiss me, ask about Jamie’s day, shower, and sit down for dinner.

I assumed the empty lunchbox meant exactly what any wife would assume.

My husband ate the lunch I packed.

Then, one Tuesday morning, everything changed.

Jamie was ten.

He wandered into the kitchen still wearing pajamas while I was making Edward’s sandwiches.

He watched me quietly for a moment.

Then said,

“Mom, maybe don’t make Dad lunch today.”

I laughed.

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