When my daughter Nari was six, she received a pastel-colored bento box from my sister. It was delicate and sweet—exactly the kind she’d admired for weeks. To Nari, it wasn’t just a lunchbox. It was a reminder that she mattered, that someone saw her and chose something just for her.
But that special feeling was short-lived.
Just days after bringing it to school, another student, Audrey, began using it. She insisted it was hers and refused to return it. When Nari told her teacher, the response surprised us both: “It’s just a lunchbox.”
But to us, it wasn’t.
The next day, I visited the classroom. I calmly walked over, picked up the bento box from Audrey’s desk—clearly marked with Nari’s name in gold lettering—and gave it back to my daughter. Loud enough for the teacher to hear, I said gently, “This belongs to my daughter. It matters to her, and that’s enough.”
I assumed the matter was settled. But soon after, I was called in for a meeting with the school.
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