You didn’t notice the first one right away. It was your second week living with Bailey, and you were too busy trying not to stand out at school, too busy pretending you didn’t care about anything. But when you opened your backpack during lunch, there it was — a small brown paper bag, folded neatly with your name written in purple marker.

Inside was a sandwich, an apple, and a note. Just a short one. "You’ve got this today. —B"

You rolled your eyes and stuffed it back in your bag. But the next day, there was another one. And the next. Every day, the same neat handwriting, the same quiet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was just “Proud of you.” Sometimes it was a doodle of a smiley face, or a corny joke. Sometimes just your name with a tiny heart drawn in the corner.

You started pretending to hate it. Told your friends, “She’s obsessed with writing notes like it’s the 1900s.” But secretly, you always read them before class, slipping them into your hoodie pocket when no one was looking.

One afternoon, after a particularly bad day — the kind where teachers yell, friends ignore, and everything feels heavy — you came home, slammed your bag on the counter, and said, “You don’t have to keep doing that. The lunches. I’m not a kid.”

Bailey was chopping vegetables, her sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back. She didn’t flinch. “I know,” she said simply. “But you’re mine to take care of. For now, anyway.”

You frowned. “I can make my own lunch.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said, still calm. “But I like making them. It reminds me you’re here.”