I couldn’t remember what I was dreaming, or if I was dreaming at all. But I knew I had been sound asleep. And I was rudely awakened by a random thought: Did I make James’s lunch for school? Damn it, Sharon, did you? I twisted under the blankets and turned onto my back. I stared into the darkness of my bedroom. Did I make James’s lunch for school? The question nagged. Was I going to have to get out of bed and check? Think, Sharon!

My mind revved like a reliable engine but churned out thoughts irrelevant for the late hour. I remembered tasks for later in the week, phone calls from two days ago, and which bills got paid for the month. My memory was blank each time I was able to circle back to James’s lunch. Despite my brain’s blazing activity, my body was reluctant to be removed from the bed. I had been so comfortable. Except for my neck. Three different pillows over the summer and not one had fixed that issue. My right hand rose up from the heavy warmth of the covers to my cool forehead. Ten years of making school lunches and I still manage to forget to do them.

I turned my head to look at my husband sleeping beside me and sighed. Jim wasn’t going to wake up to do it. Every night in our sixteen years of marriage, I wished I could sleep as soundly as Jim. I elbowed him for the hell of it. He took a deep breath, hardly disturbed from his unconsciousness, and turned away from me. He probably thought I was making a complaint about his snoring again. I groaned, ignored the protests of my joints, and willed my stiff body out of bed.

I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the crust from my eyes. I decided against flipping an overhead light on. The little bulb over the stove range seemed to suffice. Ten years of making James lunches for school didn’t require much brain power, or light, at this point in my career. What to make him? Lately, he’s been fond of good ol’ ham and cheese. Remember that year he would only eat peanut butter sandwiches?

The burst of light from the fridge nearly knocked me over. I scrubbed my face. Well, let’s start with the bread. How old is this mayo? I gathered ingredients, leaving the door to the fridge open. I blindly searched a dark cabinet for a brown paper bag. When James started junior high school, he informed me lunchboxes were for babies. There was no more calling him “Jimmy,” either. And leaving a note in his lunch was especially “lame.” Was I trying to embarrass him to death? Did I want the other kids to make fun of him forever? Anonymous brown bag lunches it became. But this was his first day of high school. This was special. I was going to sneak a note in this lunch. Where is my notepaper?

My countertop was a paused assembly line of lunch-making supplies as I located a slip of paper and a working pen. What to write? Nothing too mushy. Nothing cheesy. Nothing cliché. What does that leave me with? I scribbled something, and then James scared the hell out of me by appearing out of thin air. “Oh, good Lord, James,” I slapped a hand to my chest as I huffed and puffed. At least James looked amused at my near heart attack.

The yellow glow of the refrigerator cast strange shadows on my teenage son. I could see James wearing a crooked half-smile. It was an endearing expression on him and a recent adoption. I understood his muted grin to be a reflection of self-consciousness. James’s braces were a new acquirement over the summer. Only during unabashed bouts of laughter did I see his full smile since earning the milestone. I decided not to say anything about the change. I wasn’t sure what to say. James reacted to all my comments with an exaggerated “Mom,” accompanied by a rolling of his eyes. Welcome to the teenage years, Sharon. You’re not cool or funny and your opinion isn’t wanted anymore.

“What are you doing?” James asked as he studied the messy countertop. I followed his gaze, wondering how it wasn’t obvious.

“Lunch,” I turned my eyes back up to him. Up? Was I looking up at my son now? Did he grow overnight? Were those new jeans going to fit him? I trusted him to pick his own sizes this year. I looked my son up and down as if my sleepy eyes were playing tricks on me. When did he start sleeping in boxers and a t-shirt? Better not ask.

“Why?” He threw that half-smile at me again.

“Well, honey, you have school tomorrow.”

“I know.”

There’s the eye roll. What did I say this time?

“Why are you out of bed? You need your rest. You’ll feel tired in the morning. Did you have a bad dream?” As soon as the last question left my dry lips, I cringed. Shouldn’t have asked that. He doesn’t need me to tuck him in at night. He’s not a baby anymore, Sharon. How many times does he need to tell you that? This is why he’s in his room all the time and not under your feet anymore. Let him grow up.

I was thankful all James did was laugh at me. There was a quick flash of the metal on his teeth. James put a hand through his messy brown hair and scratched the back of his head. He had the barber cut it short on the sides but leave it much longer on top. He could push it all to one side or comb it all back, but it fell in his face most of the time. James told me that was how teenagers wanted their hair. It’s only hair. It looks silly, but it makes him happy. Jim agrees he’ll grow tired of it one day. Hairstyles aren’t worth an argument.

“Mom, I already made my lunch for tomorrow,” he pointed into the open fridge.

I turned and scanned the shelves. There was a brown paper bag filled and ready to go.

“Oh! Well, then… nevermind.” I swallowed the lump that appeared in my throat. My heart turned heavy as lead. I felt the weight on my stomach.. “Look at you,” I forced a smile. “How very responsible of you.” Why did this hurt? It’s just lunch. Don’t cry, Sharon.

“Yeah, I thought it was about time I did it for myself.” James shrugged.

“Of course,” I nodded. “That’s great. I’m proud of you for taking care of it yourself.” No, I’m not. I want my baby back. I gathered everything I had taken out into my arms and began to put it away. James watched me. I hoped he didn’t see my hands shaking.

“Hey, mom?”

“What’s up, honey?” I closed the cabinet after replacing the no-longer-needed brown paper bag. I smiled again as I gave him my attention. He looks so much like Jim. He’s as handsome as his father. Please don’t play the dating game anytime soon. I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready for this. It’s just lunch, Sharon!

“Thanks anyway, I guess,” his eyes were on the emptied countertop.

“Sure, hon,” I nodded and went back to the fridge to put the last of the unneeded supplies away.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” I didn’t look up from working in the fridge. The mayo goes back in the door, bottom shelf. The deli ham and cheese go to the drawer.

“What’s this?”

I straightened up, a hand resting on the door of the refrigerator. James held the note I had planned to sneak into his lunch in his hand. Oh, damn. “It’s nothing,” I snapped and lunged forward to snatch it away before he could read it. He shifted on his bare feet, keeping the slip of paper out of my grasp with ease. He was always quick, especially as a toddler. The mischief he made in those days! Those days are so far away now.

“Were you gonna leave me a note in my lunch?”

James’s face was unreadable. He wasn’t amused. He wasn’t upset. His father’s brown eyes stared at me, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” I said wrapping my arms around myself and aiming my gaze down at the tiled floor. “I know you’re too big for that. It was just that… Well,  it’s your first day of high school, and I—”

There were arms around me. I blinked and I wondered if it was okay to return the hug. I moved an inch at a time, until one of my hands was on his back and the other cupping his head at my shoulder. James wasn’t shrugging me off. He wasn’t squirming under my hold. There were no sighs or groans from him. My heart was beating so hard I wondered if he could hear its quick rhythm. There was pressure building in my chest. I wanted to freeze the moment. No tears, Sharon. No tears!

I felt his grip loosen and I followed suit. We let go of one another at the same time. James slipped around me and reached into the fridge. He unrolled the top of the brown bag lunch he had made and slid my note in.

“I thought you didn’t want notes anymore?” I watched him, completely baffled. He closed the bag up and then closed the fridge. It was hard to see his expression with only the light above the range behind him. I thought he might be smiling.

“Just one more isn’t a big deal,” he shrugged.

I nodded, still confused. Was this pity? Was I a middle-aged, out-of-touch, uncool mom who was desperate to cling to anything left of her little boy? He had to be humoring me. He’ll take it out before he leaves for school.

“I’m gonna go back to bed now,” he backed away from the refrigerator, a thumb raised out to the side, eyes still on me.

“Okay, honey. Goodnight.” I felt awkward. Why do you feel awkward? You’re the adult!

“You should go back to bed too, since,” he circled with a flat hand, palm aimed at the floor, “this is all figured out now.”

“I am,” I nodded. “Goodnight,” I said again for a lack of better words. James turned on a heel and sauntered toward his room. My heart felt squeezed and it made my head swim. What just happened? Why are teenagers so confusing? Was I like this with my mom? I made my way back to my bed. What did I write on that note? I tried to remember. James’s hug threw me for a loop.

Getting back under the covers, Jim was exactly where I left him. I sighed as I settled in beside him. I stared up at the ceiling. A tear trickled across my temple and into my ear. I wiped it. But then there was another, and then another. Damn it, Sharon, why are you crying? Ten years of lunches, that’s why. But how many nights did you wonder when you wouldn’t have to make your son lunches anymore? You couldn’t wait to be done making lunches. Now all you want to do is make the lunches! Make up your mind!

I turned on my side as I sniffled, determined to be done with my tears. Staring at Jim’s back I finally remembered what I had scribbled on the notepaper: It’s just lunch, or is it? Always, Mom.

It’s just lunch, I laughed in my head, but I will always be Mom. He will always be my boy. He’s supposed to grow up. I think I can let him grow up. Growing up doesn’t mean gone forever.  I threw an arm around Jim and pulled myself up against him. He stirred, adjusting alongside me with an exhale, and took my hand in his without a word. I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep.

– Tinamarie Cox

Author’s Note: “It’s Just Lunch” was awarded an Honorable Mention in the 2023 Great American Fiction Contest hosted by The Saturday Evening Post.