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By the time Arnold’s eyes filled up, I was still standing there holding the lunch I’d packed that morning.
Ben’s favorite sandwich — turkey with the mustard he likes that nobody else in our house will touch. A slice of apple pie in a separate container. And a note folded under the plastic fork.
You don’t have to take care of everyone. Let me have a turn.
A note from Daily Positive
Want to finish this story without interruptions?
I’d written that at seven-fifteen at my own kitchen counter, feeling fairly pleased with myself.
The Corridor
“I’m so glad I ran into you,” I said. “Can you tell me where Ben is?”
And Arnold Whitfield — who has eaten Thanksgiving dinner at my table three times, who taught my daughter to whistle, who is my husband’s closest friend on this earth — looked at my face for about four seconds too long.
