Oummi's Little Notes

Every lunchtime, even before opening my lunchbox, I knew there would be something inside.

Not just my sandwich.

Not just my fruit.

A little piece of paper.

Oummi put one in almost every day.

Sometimes, she wrote:

“Have a good day, my Sana.”

Sometimes:

“Good luck with math. May Allah make it easy for you.”

Sometimes, she just drew a heart.

A huge heart, actually.

Oummi drew hearts as if she was trying to fill the whole page.

And sometimes, she wrote anything.

“I put your favorite dessert in. No, you are not allowed to start with it.”

Or:

“Mission of the day: don’t forget your water bottle at school for the fourth time.”

Once, she even wrote:

“If you are reading this message, it means you managed to open your box. Congratulations.”

I laughed all by myself for at least a minute.

Oummi had been doing this for a long time.

So long that I didn’t even know when she had started.

And I almost never told her that I loved her little notes.

I read them, I smiled, then I folded them and put them in the little pocket of my bag.

As if it was normal.

As if I didn’t look for them every lunchtime before even starting to eat.

---

One Tuesday, I was sitting with Sofia and Selma.

We ate together almost every day.

Sofia was telling something about her gym class, Selma was trying to open her yogurt without spilling it everywhere, and I opened my box.

The little piece of paper was right on top of my napkin.

I recognized it right away.

Oummi had used the yellow paper.

I was about to take it when Sofia was faster.

“What’s that?”

She grabbed it.

My stomach did a funny thing.

“Nothing, give it.”

But she had already unfolded it.

There was a little heart in a corner.

Obviously.

A huge heart.

Sofia read:

“Good luck with your test. You know your lesson. I’m thinking of you.”

Then she looked at me.

“Your mom writes you that?”

“Yes.”

She smiled.

Not meanly.

Just surprised.

“She still puts little notes in your box?”

Selma looked up from her yogurt.

Sofia laughed.

“That’s so babyish!”

And Selma smiled too.

Not for long.

Just a little smile.

But I saw it.

I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, the yellow paper seemed much bigger in Sofia’s hands.

The heart too.

Especially the heart.

I reached out my hand.

“Come on, give it.”

She gave it back to me.

Then I laughed with them.

“Seriously, she’s too much.”

The words came out on their own.

Sofia had already started telling her story again.

Selma had finally managed to open her yogurt.

And I folded the paper.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Until it became very small.

I slipped it to the bottom of my pocket.

I didn’t even reread the message.

---

In the afternoon, during the test, I thought of a sentence.

Not Oummi’s.

Sofia’s.

That’s so babyish.

I was ten years old.

I wasn’t a baby anymore.

I knew how to pack my bag by myself.

I could stay at a friend’s house without Oummi.

I knew how to do my homework without being reminded every five minutes to get started.

Well… almost.

So maybe Sofia was right.

---

In the evening, Oummi was in the kitchen.

She was preparing something for the next day while I filled my water bottle.

I stayed quiet for a moment.

Then I said:

“Oummi?”

“Yes?”

“You know the little notes you put in my box?”

She kept tidying up.

“Yes.”

“You can stop now.”

She turned around.

Not completely.

Just enough to look at me.

“You don’t want them anymore?”

I shrugged.

“No.”

Then I added:

“I’m not five anymore.”

Oummi looked at me for a second.

Maybe I was waiting for her to ask why.

Or to say:

“But you like them though.”

Or to try to convince me.

She didn’t do any of that.

She simply answered:

“Okay.”

Then she closed the cupboard.

That was all.

Problem solved.

---

The next day at lunchtime, I sat with Sofia and Selma.

I opened my box.

There was my sandwich.

A clementine.

A little cake.

A napkin.

I lifted the napkin.

Nothing.

I looked under the sandwich.

Nothing.

Then I stopped.

Why was I looking?

I had asked Oummi to stop.

I closed the box a little.

Sofia was talking.

Selma was laughing.

No one was looking at my meal.

No one was at risk of seeing a huge heart.

That was exactly what I wanted.

So why was I disappointed?

I told myself it was just because I was used to it.

On Thursday, I opened my box.

Nothing.

This time, I didn’t look under the sandwich.

Well…

Not really.

I just moved my napkin.

Just like that.

On Friday, same thing.

Nothing.

And every day, for a tiny second, when I opened my box, I still expected to see a piece of paper.

Then I remembered.

I was the one who had asked.

---

The following Monday, I had a presentation in front of the class.

I hated presentations.

When I was sitting, I knew perfectly well what to say.

As soon as I stood up in front of everyone, my brain sometimes decided to go on vacation.

Oummi knew that.

The day before, she had me recite my presentation in the living room.

I made mistakes twice.

“It’s going to be fine,” she told me.

“Easy to say, you’re not the one presenting.”

“I can come do it for you if you want.”

I looked at her.

“No thanks.”

“Too bad, I really wanted to talk about volcanoes in front of your class.”

The next morning, I was already thinking about the afternoon.

My presentation was right after lunch.

At noon, I sat with Sofia and Selma.

I opened my box.

And without thinking, I looked.

Under the napkin.

Next to the fruit.

Nothing.

I stared inside the box for a few seconds.

I knew exactly what Oummi could have written.

“Breathe.”

Or:

“You know your topic.”

Or maybe a silly joke about volcanoes.

I would have even accepted a huge heart.

Sofia asked me:

“Are you okay?”

I looked up.

“Yes.”

I started eating.

And then, for the first time since I had asked Oummi to stop, I understood what I was missing.

It wasn’t really the paper.

It wasn’t even the sentence.

It was the moment when I opened my box and, for a few seconds, Oummi was there too.

Not really there.

But a little.

---

I did my presentation that afternoon.

I forgot a sentence.

Then I found it again.

I spoke a little too fast at the beginning.

Then less fast.

At the end, the teacher told me:

“Very good, Sana.”

And I went back to sit down.

It wasn’t the best presentation in the history of the school.

But it was over.

And I was happy.

---

In the evening, when I got home, I didn’t say anything to Oummi about the little notes.

I just told her about my presentation.

She asked me:

“Did you breathe?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing.”

I smiled.

Later, I went through the kitchen.

Oummi’s bag was on a chair.

I don’t know exactly why I did that.

I took a little piece of paper.

Then a pen.

I wrote:

“Have a good day, Oummi.”

I stopped.

Then I drew a heart.

Not too big.

Well…

I tried not to make it too big.

But apparently, it runs in the family.

I folded the paper and slipped it into a little pocket of her bag.

Then I left without saying anything.

---

The next morning, I was in the kitchen when Oummi opened her bag.

She was looking for her keys.

Then she found the paper.

I saw her unfold it.

I pretended to drink my milk.

She read it.

Then she looked at me.

“Sana?”

“What?”

She showed me the paper.

“What’s that?”

I shrugged.

“Nothing.”

She looked at the drawing.

“It’s huge, your heart.”

“No it’s not.”

“Sana, it takes up half the paper.”

“Okay, fine.”

She laughed.

Then she folded the note.

But instead of throwing it away, she put it back in her bag.

I saw her do it.

She took her keys.

Then, just before leaving, she turned around.

“Sana?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want me to start again?”

I understood immediately.

I didn’t answer right away.

Then I said:

“Yes.”

And I added:

“But you don’t have to put one in every day.”

Oummi nodded very seriously.

“Okay.”

“And avoid giant hearts.”

She opened the door.

“I’m not promising anything.”

---

The next day at lunchtime, I opened my box.

There was a little piece of paper.

I looked at Sofia.

She was talking with Selma.

No one was paying attention to me.

I took the paper and unfolded it.

Oummi had written:

“Have a good day, my Sana.”

Then, just below:

“Sorry about the heart.”

And at the very bottom of the page, she had drawn the biggest heart I had ever seen.

I tried not to laugh.

I didn’t succeed.

Sofia looked at me.

“Why are you laughing?”

I folded my paper.

This time, not very small.

Just in two.

Then I slipped it into my pocket.

“For nothing.”