The Letter and the Lunchbox
Favour had spent all morning preparing bitterleaf soup. Auntie Rose watched her from the side, arms crossed. The seasoning was perfect, the meat soft, no burnt base.
It was ready.
She packed it carefully in a glass container, wrapped it in warm cloth, and placed it inside a food flask. Then she tucked in a handwritten letter.
Daniel,
_I don't expect this to fix everything, i know i broke something that was hard to build in the first place. But this soup? It's mine, i cut the leaves, i blended the pepper, i cried through the onions, and cooked it with fire, and with pain.
I know you may not forgive me, but i want you to know I'm not pretending anymore.
-Favour
She sent it through a bike courier and waited.
He didn't reply.
Not that day.
Not the next.
But the container came back—washed.