His Black Minecraft Lunchbox

How much fruit is too much?

How do you know if it’s not enough?

Do kids still eat muesli bars? Is peanut butter banned? Did I cut the sandwich wrong? Should I leave a note? Is that weird? Do dads… stepdads leave notes?

I never thought these would be the questions keeping me awake at night in my thirties. Never thought a peanut butter sandwich would be more intimidating than a mortgage.

They were the questions I married into.

One day I was deciding where to take this beautiful, amazing woman on a first date, and before I knew it there was a six-year-old following me from room to room asking whether sharks could beat dinosaurs in a fight, looking at me like I was supposed to know.

(I… I really have no idea?)

Nobody tells you that becoming a parent can happen overnight. They will carry on about parenthood as though it arrives with a newborn in your arms. They never acknowledge that there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

For me it came with a wedding ring already on my finger and a little boy who already had favourite cartoons, a bedtime routine, and six years of memories that didn’t include me.

Now I pack his lunch every morning when I'm home. I still remember the first one I made him.

It was a ham sandwich cut into triangles, because that felt more like something a kid should eat. Apple slices sprinkled with lemon juice so they wouldn’t go brown. Carrot sticks and grapes cut in half because apparently they’re a choking hazard. A tiny strawberry flavoured yoghurt tub and a muesli bar. Then I took the muesli bar out because maybe it had too much sugar, and then I put it back because maybe everyone else’s parents packed them? Then I took it out again.

I did that three times until I just stood there staring into an open lunchbox like it was an exam I hadn’t studied for.

I was still clutching the school newsletter in my left hand.

“Snap n’ Crunch. Healthy meals for young minds.”

I had no bloody clue what that meant? (Still don’t) Carrot sticks snap right? Apples crunch? But so does a kit-kat and salt and vinegar chips…

His mum had started a new job that week, I was home on break. She was going to prepack his lunch the night before, but I convinced her I am more than capable to do it. I really had no idea what I was getting myself into…

He wandered into the kitchen rubbing sleep from his eyes that morning.

“Can I have chips?”

“I’ve packed healthier stuff.”

He shrugged.

“Okay.”

That was it, no argument. No tears. Just a shrug. I spent the next eight hours of the day wondering if I’d already stuffed up.

Starting from that day, every afternoon became the same ritual. I’d take the black Minecraft lunchbox out of his bag, stick it on the kitchen bench with a dull plastic thud. Then open it, inspect it before washing it.

The first day there was still half a sandwich. Half of the sliced grapes. The strawberry yoghurt was missing. Carrots were still there though.

I’d studied it like forensic evidence. That afternoon and every afternoon since. The questions running through my head were always the same. Maybe I packed too much? Maybe he hated apples? Maybe his mum made better lunches? Was he too embarrassed to eat the sandwich I’d cut into triangles?

I always told myself I was just learning what he liked. That was only half true though. The other half was harder to admit. I was looking for proof that I belonged, that I was needed. Wanted.

Nobody tells you how strange it feels becoming a stepdad. You don’t get nine months to grow into the idea. There’s no tiny baby who doesn’t know any different.

One day you’re just… there.

Helping with homework. Reading bedtime stories. Being asked to check for monsters under the bed. Trying to work out whether you’re allowed to tell someone else’s child to brush their teeth. Every hug feels borrowed and the word Dad is a jacket hanging by the front door.

Yeah, it fits. You like it, it’s comfortable. You’re just not convinced it’s yours.

Months passed like this.

The lunchbox kept coming home. Some days better. Some days worse.

I stopped cutting the sandwiches into triangles. Stopped worrying about the apples browning. I even started leaving the crusts on.

He never complained. Not once, I had no idea if that was a good thing or not.

One Tuesday morning we overslept. I’d forgotten to charge my phone, so the alarm never went off. Breakfast was rushed that day. The bread tore while I buttered it and there weren’t any apples left. I grabbed a banana, a packet of crackers and whatever yoghurt was closest. There were no little treats and no careful arrangement.

No second-guessing, and it was, without question, the worst lunch I’d ever packed.

“I’ll do better tomorrow,” I said as he climbed out of the car.

He looked back.

“You always say that.”

I watched him disappear through the school gate. The rest of the day I felt a heavy pit in my stomach.

That afternoon his lunchbox landed on the bench like always. I sighed before opening it.

Empty.

No sandwich… No banana… No crackers…

Not even the yoghurt. Just a few crumbs in the corner. I stood there for a long time with the lid in my hand.

There was no applause, I never said anything to his mum. But it was better than any Father’s Day card. Yeah he didn’t suddenly start calling me Dad. It was just an empty lunchbox after all, but for the first time since I married his mum, I didn’t feel like I’d stolen something.

I rinsed the black Minecraft lunchbox under the tap, set it on the drying rack, and opened the fridge.

We are out of grapes.

I’ll add it to tomorrow’s shopping list.