The sun rose over the backyard hill, peeked through the kitchen window, and officially ended her worst day ever. She shuffled wearily to the fridge, opened it, and wondered if she’d become a sleepwalker. Three brown bags stared back at her. Then, beside the lunches, she saw them: the small bag and the large coffee, each bearing a familiar logo. The tiny cry of the six-week-old pierced the still morning. She heaved a sigh and headed down the hall and into the new day. Today is already better than yesterday, she thought. The fridge was his love letter.
Quick Fiction in <100