After the Last School Run

The last school run began with a lunchbox Maggie Byrne could not bring herself to throw away. It sat on the passenger seat of her car at twenty past eight on a wet Tuesday morning, pink plastic gone cloudy at the corners, one hinge cracked, the faded sticker of a cartoon fox half-peeled from the lid. There was nothing inside it except a folded kitchen towel and the stale ghost of apple slices, but Maggie had washed it twice the night before, dried it with the good tea towel, and set it by the kettle as though Aoife might come downstairs half asleep and ask where her blue jumper was.