By Sarah Robinson

The package was cold in her hands, the freezer door gaping open at her shoulder, frosty air spilling out. There were twelve meatballs, vacuum sealed in a pouch of red sauce. There had once been a stack of pouches just like it, but for the past six months there had been just the one, sitting alone in the corner of the freezer. 

Each time she saw it, the question rose in her mind—how long will they last? She knew the taste would change, that the flavor would eventually diminish, even though they were carefully stored. She couldn’t bear to let that happen. She turned the lumpy package in her hands, using her thumb to melt the frost off of one corner to better see inside. She sighed and swung the freezer door closed, taking the package to the counter.

His handwriting was still on the plastic—written with the black Sharpie she could picture lying in her parents’ junk drawer—love Dad! Enjoy! She remembered the day he had delivered them to her tiny apartment. She wasn’t expecting him and was speechless to find him standing at the door, clutching the little cooler bag in his big, rough hands. He’d driven four hours to bring her meatballs.  

“I miss you, is all…” he said. “I made your favorite.” She’d been away from home about six weeks for her first semester of college. She was struggling with school, being in a new city, and missing home. The recent break-up made everything worse—her boyfriend of three years had chosen a different school and quickly decided he’d rather be free, tossing her aside in search of shiny new things. She’d been watching his new life unfold via social media, sleeping poorly, and missing classes.  

Her dad set the bag down on the doormat and opened his arms and she walked right into them. They stood like that for a long time, wordlessly. Then he picked up the bag and went into the kitchen, saying nothing about the state of her apartment (messy) or her appearance (disheveled).

He set to work, somehow finding her only clean pot and filling it with water, putting it on the stove to boil, adding a generous pinch of salt. He washed a smaller pot to warm the meatballs and sauce, filling her apartment with the smell of home. She sat on a stool at the counter, bare knees pulled up inside her T-shirt, tears trickling down her face, her heart exploding with love as she watched him.

He’d made them each a huge bowl and they’d eaten together, sitting side by side on her shitty futon couch, watching The Big Bang Theory. When she went to take a shower, he washed her mountain of dirty dishes and took out the trash and folded the afghan on the couch. He’d loaded the empty freezer with packages of meatballs and sauce and kissed her on the forehead as he left, saying, “Life can be tough sometimes, but I’m here for you, kiddo. You’re not alone.” 

Two months later, he was dead.

She’d taken a semester off and sublet her apartment, gone home to help her grieving mother, the mountain of frozen meatballs forgotten in the process.

When she returned, she’d discovered that the asshole she’d rented to had helped himself to her freezer, and only one package of meatballs remained. She’d dissolved into tears, clutching them to her chest as she’d wept on the worn linoleum. She would eat them on a special occasion. Or maybe ration them somehow, ball by ball. But she’d not been able to bring herself to do it. Now something told her it was time—beyond time, really.

She chose the same pots her dad had used that day. Then she carefully cut the plastic around his handwriting and tacked it to her corkboard. When the meatballs were cooked, she brought her bowl to the futon and put on an episode of Big Bang. She took a deep breath, then took her first bite. 

It didn’t taste the same. It didn’t feel the same. The spot next to her on the worn futon was empty. He was really gone. Her heart ached for him, for herself, and for her life without him. Tears and snot flowed in torrents as she sobbed, hand cupped over her full mouth. Her throat constricted and she couldn’t swallow. 

The episode was over by the time she stopped crying. The meatballs were cold in their bowl. She eventually packaged up the rest of the pasta and padded down the hall to 3C. She knocked on the door and waited. “Mrs. Critchley?” she said as the door slowly opened, safety chain in place. “I heard about Mr. Critchley. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

The old woman sniffled behind the door. 

“I have something for you.” She held out the Tupperware, still warm in her hands.

And as she turned to leave, she saw him, her father, clear as day, standing there by her own apartment door—just as he had on the day of the meatballs. He gave a slight nod of his head and an encouraging smile. Eyes fixed on his, she put her hand out to stop Mrs. Critchley’s door before it clicked shut. 

“And I’m here for you if you need anything,” she said softly. “You’re not alone.”