The Bento Box Isn’t Just Lunch
It started, like most things in life, without a grand declaration. No flowers. No fireworks. Just a plastic box packed the night before — rice still warm, tamagoyaki cut with care, and a note scribbled on a sticky tab: “Don’t forget your umbrella today!”
When we were dating, I thought romance would be weekend getaways and candlelit dinners. That’s what movies taught me. But somewhere between our wedding and the arrival of our second child, romance began showing up in stranger places: like the lunchbox I packed every morning, half-asleep, while he shaved in the other room.
Ten years later — and roughly 10,000 bentos — I’ve started to realize something: what I thought was “just routine” might actually be the most romantic thing I’ve ever done.
Of course, there were days I cursed it. Days I overslept, days I forgot to defrost the chicken, days I thought, “Why am I always the one doing this?” But even in the middle of those moments — especially in those moments — the bento felt like a quiet thread tying us together. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But daily.
In Japan, the bento box isn’t just food. It’s a kind of language — one without words. A small act that says: “I see you.” “I remember you.” “I’m still here.” And even if no one else sees it, the person opening that box at noon — tired from work or half-distracted during a meeting — knows someone at home woke up early just to send them off with something warm.
This post isn’t about how to make Instagram-perfect lunches. You won’t find cute sausage octopuses or cherry blossom-cut carrots here. I’m not that kind of mom. But I am the kind of mom who believes in showing up — again and again — with something simple, honest, and maybe even a little bit loving.
So this is a story about bento. But really, it’s a story about what romance starts to look like after 10 years of marriage, two kids, a lot of grocery bills, and not enough sleep.
Spoiler: it doesn’t look like the movies.
But it still makes my heart full.
From Resentment to Realization
At some point, the bento stopped feeling romantic.
I don’t know exactly when — maybe somewhere between the 1,213th lunchbox and the 4th time I cut my finger slicing frozen ham at 6 a.m. But there were mornings when the kitchen felt like a battlefield, and I was the lone soldier in a never-ending war.
No one asked me to make those lunches. My husband certainly didn’t demand them. In fact, on more than one occasion, he offered to just buy a convenience store sandwich. But somewhere deep inside me, a voice whispered:
“This is what good wives do.”
“This is how you show love.”
“This is your role now.”
That voice wasn’t his. It was mine — or maybe society’s, quietly stitched into my idea of womanhood.
I started keeping score.
How many times I woke up earlier.
How many bentos I made while he snored.
How many mornings he didn’t say “thank you.”
And then — one day — I snapped.
It wasn’t dramatic. No shouting. No slamming doors. Just a very quiet, very tired whisper over breakfast:
“I don’t know why I’m doing this anymore.”
He looked up from his miso soup, confused.
“The bento?”
“Yeah. The bento.”
Silence.
And then he said something I didn’t expect:
“I always thought you liked it. I never realized it was this heavy for you.”
That one sentence shifted something.
Not because it solved anything — but because it reminded me: he wasn’t a mind reader. And I hadn’t said a word in years.
So we talked. For the first time in a long time. About expectations. About habits. About how something that started with love had quietly turned into a burden. Not because he made it so — but because I never noticed it happening.
That night, I didn’t make a bento. We ordered takeout instead.
And in a strange way, that felt romantic too.
After that, the bento became something different. Not an obligation. Not a symbol of “good wife” performance. But something I could choose. And some days, I still do — just not every day.
Because love, I’m learning, isn’t about never getting tired. It’s about being honest when you are.
And maybe the most romantic thing isn’t the bento itself, but the fact that I kept showing up — not perfectly, not joyfully every time — but with care.
And now, with a little more clarity.
The Day I Couldn’t Pack a Bento
The bento routine finally stopped — not by choice, but by circumstance.
It was a Tuesday morning in early spring. The cherry blossoms hadn’t quite opened yet. My husband called from the train station, his voice oddly tight.
“I think I need to go to the hospital,” he said.
Within hours, he was admitted for observation — something minor, thank goodness, but enough to keep him there for a few days. I stood there in the hospital corridor, clutching my tote bag, blinking at the vending machine, and realizing for the first time in years:
I didn’t have anyone to make a bento for.
At first, it was a strange kind of freedom. No rice to cook. No egg to fry. No alarm to beat. But by the third morning, I found myself boiling water for miso soup anyway — just to feel like something was still normal.
I missed him.
Not the big, romantic movie-style “I miss you.”
I missed the clatter of his chopsticks.
The way he always left one bite of broccoli like a rebellious middle schooler.
The way he texted, “You packed too much again 😅” from his office desk.
Distance makes things visible that routine makes invisible.
At the hospital, I brought him a few things — fresh socks, a phone charger, and one small bento box. He laughed when he saw it.
“You know they serve meals here, right?”
I shrugged. “This one’s got your favorite karaage. Hospital food doesn’t do that.”
It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t healthy. But it was us.
He held the box for a second longer than necessary. And in that small pause, something wordless passed between us. Not grand. Not cinematic. Just this quiet, ordinary truth:
We take care of each other.
And sometimes that looks like chicken, rice, and a slice of pickled radish in a plastic container.
That week changed us in ways I didn’t expect. When he came home, we talked more. We joked more. We shared the bento duty sometimes — or just bought onigiri and didn’t feel guilty.
And slowly, I realized: bento wasn’t just about food, or routine, or even love.
It was about presence. About knowing someone’s tastes, their habits, their 12:30 lunch break fatigue.
It was a conversation we’d been having without words for a decade.
And now, we were finally listening.
Love Isn’t Always Loud
Ten thousand bentos.
It’s not a perfect number. I haven’t actually counted, and honestly, I’ve skipped plenty of days. But in spirit? Ten thousand feels right.
Ten thousand small acts.
Ten thousand early mornings.
Ten thousand silent “I love you”s tucked between rice and pickles.
I used to think romance had to be seen.
That it had to sparkle.
That it had to look like something worth posting.
But now I know: the most enduring kind of love isn’t made of grand gestures.
It’s made of repetition.
Of knowing and being known.
Of showing up — even when you’re tired, even when you don’t feel poetic, even when the person you’re showing up for forgets to say thank you.
There’s a tenderness in the ordinary. A kind of intimacy that doesn’t need flowers or Instagram captions.
Just a neatly packed lunch, with the rice shaped exactly the way he likes it.
Or a shared silence over convenience store coffee after dropping off the kids.
We don’t talk about that kind of romance enough.
Because it doesn’t sell movie tickets.
But it builds something better: trust. Continuity. A soft place to land.
Now, when I make a bento, it’s not about proving my devotion. It’s not about being the perfect wife. It’s about choosing to love again — not just in theory, but in action.
Some days I don’t make one. And that’s okay too.
Because I no longer believe that love has to be earned through exhaustion.
Instead, I believe in mutual care. In shared effort.
In listening. In laughing. In forgiving.
In sitting across from each other at the end of a long day and saying,
“You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
That’s what love looks like after 10,000 bentos.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
But steady.
And deeply, unmistakably real.
💬 Final Note to the Reader:
If you’re packing bentos — or doing dishes, or folding tiny socks, or just remembering to buy your partner’s favorite tea — this one’s for you.
You’re speaking love in a language the world doesn’t always notice.
But I promise you: it’s being heard.
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