“Victor gets lunch every day like he’s family.”
“No,” she said. “He isn’t just some man.”
“Then who is he?”
For a second, I thought she would tell me.
Instead, she shoved the warm container into my hands.
“Take him his food, hon.”
I stared at her. “Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”
Mom’s hand hit the counter so hard I jumped.
“He isn’t just some man.”
“Don’t you ever say that again. Do you hear me? You have no idea what that man gave up.”
“Gave up for who? You?”
She trembled.
Then she turned away.
“Take him his food, Fiona. This conversation is over.”
So I did.
“Gave up for who? You?”
Victor sat near the fence, rubbing his hands against the cold.
“Your mom make soup today?” he asked.
“Yeah. Chicken.”
He smiled softly. “That’s her best one.”
“You don’t even know her.”
The smile faded completely.
“I know her soup.”
I hated him more for saying that.
“You don’t even know her.”
Years passed, and I moved out. Mom and I fought less because I stopped asking questions.
But Victor stayed.
Sometimes I saw him fixing the loose porch step or leaving firewood after storms.
Once, when my boots split open in high school, a secondhand pair appeared beside my backpack.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
“Church donation,” Mom said too quickly.
But Victor stayed.
I looked out the kitchen window.
Victor was brushing snow off the steps.
I just didn’t understand.
***
Then cancer came and made my mother small.
Stephanie had once carried grocery bags in both hands and opened doors with her elbows. By the end, I could see her wrist bones.
Two weeks before she died, I sat beside her hospital bed while she picked at the blanket.
I just didn’t understand.
“Fiona.”
“I’m here.”
“You have to promise me something.”
I leaned closer. “Mom, rest.”
“No.” Her fingers closed around my wrist. “Victor.”
My stomach tightened.
“Not this again.”
“Mom, rest.”
“Promise me you’ll feed him.”
“Why?” I whispered. “Why him? Why always him?”
Her eyes filled.
“I never put him before you.”
“It felt like you did.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked. “And I’m sorry.”
“Then tell me why.”
“Why him? Why always him?”
She looked toward the door.
“If Mark comes around after I’m gone, don’t let him touch the blue box.”
I blinked. “Uncle Mark?”
“Promise me.”
“What does Mark have to do with Victor?”
Her grip tightened.
“He’ll erase him completely.”
“What does Mark have to do with Victor?”
“Erase who?”
“Just promise me, Fiona.”
I wanted to demand answers, but she looked so afraid, and I was still her daughter.
“I promise,” I said.
