The Rotting Sandwiches

The sandwiches her mother packed for her would rot in her lunch box, uneaten. She refused to eat them. The sandwich would sit in her lunch box, growing soggy as the hours passed, suffocated by the plastic bag it came in. The school introduced a ban stating that kids were forbidden to throw away their lunches. It was supposed to teach them the value of food, to stop waste. But it only made things harder for her. Day after day, she edged closer and closer to the bin, making sure no one saw her. Wrapping the sandwich in tissue paper, she disguised it as finished and casually tossed it into the trash. Her mother would surely change the sandwich, any day now.

Recess starts, kids run to the playground, sitting in circles pulling out their prepared lunches. She sits further away before joining her classmates. She checks her bag; she knows what’s waiting for her, but hopes for a different sandwich anyway. It’s the same sandwich, her mother had made it that morning, just like she always did, waking up early to prepare it. The effort was clear in the way it was carefully packed, as though her mother’s hands had gone through the motions so many times they could do it without thinking. She knows her mother wakes up early for the sake of her lunches, the effort obvious in the careful way it’s packed. But no matter how much care went into it, the daughter can’t stomach it. The only thing left to do is dispose of it.

On days she failed to throw it away, she kept the sandwiches in her bag, sometimes forgetting to dispose of them. They began to rot, the smell seeping through the fabric. Eventually, her mother caught her. Disappointment flickered in her mother’s eyes as she asked, “Why are you wasting food?” Deciding that disliking the sandwiches wasn’t a good enough reason, she stayed silent, shame washing over her and dissipating coldly over her skin as she stared at the sandwich, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. She disliked it, but saying that out loud felt wrong, dangerous somehow. What kind of daughter complains when her mother wakes up early just to pack her lunch? So, she said nothing and accepted the sandwich anyway. But the worst had already happened—she had disappointed her mother, and now the feelings of shame rot inside of her.

The next day, she opened her lunch box to find another type of sandwich, one she liked. She smiled, but her smile faded quickly, realizing she still felt a flush of humiliation. The sandwiches may have changed that day, but they’re still rotting.

The sandwiches chase her well into her adult years. Now, as a twenty-something living abroad, she never makes her own lunches, always asking her coworkers what they should eat instead. She wakes up at 6 a.m. every day, goes to work, and is the first one in and the last to leave. She ensures her boss knows her every move, but she can feel her coworkers rolling their eyes. A slight touch of shame creeps in, but this is her trying, this is her showing up. Yet, after four years of slaving away and not complaining with no career progression, she tells herself it’s okay—her boss will notice her hard work and offer a promotion, any day now.

At home, she chats with her neighbor by the entrance, getting lost in the thought of whether his eyes are blue or green, missing parts of their conversation. He’s always helping her around the house, carrying her groceries, and their texts make her believe there’s something more between them. She drops hints of her interest. She put her hair in a ponytail, and he noticed—it looked good, he said. So, she wore it the same way all week, thinking, surely, he’ll ask me out. Any day now.

Months fly by. He’s placing her new shelf while she watches the snow fall through the window. Noticing her gaze, he lifts the blinds, revealing the vast snowy road and the bare trees, the landscape blanketed in white. She feels seen for the first time, as though he’s understood something about her that she didn’t even realize. They share a moment of quiet, and she imagines the invisible strings that bind them.

Then, casually, he tells her he’s seeing someone. The invisible strings snap. Her heart shatters. He didn’t see her at all—how could he, when all she does is bite her tongue instead of saying what she really means, what she really wants? How could she have been so wrong about the one thing she was sure of, the thing that now leaves her feeling embarrassed? She tells him she’s happy for him. She retreats into her routine, convincing herself it’s okay—focusing on work. Any day now, things will change.

But deep down, the fog of shame clears just enough for her to see the truth: her promotion isn’t coming. There haven’t been openings in years, and her loyalty, her discipline—they haven’t been noticed. Instead, they mock her. She realizes with painful clarity that she never believed she was worthy of a promotion or even a relationship. Back to checking her lunchbox, she yearns to be proven wrong, to find a new sandwich. She wants to be wrong so badly.

She had thought that being so far away from home would save her, but now she’s back in her middle school playground, still disposing of the rotting sandwiches. Her love, a sandwich; her dedication, another. She realizes she has spent her whole life running away from decisions, letting her expectations rot like the uneaten sandwiches. She can only hint at what she wants, implying her desires, but the decisions are for the decision-makers—and no one ever gave her permission to be one. Her subtle hints and passive longings are her only form of resistance. Tired of the chase, she wonders, Why has she never woken up to make her own sandwiches?