“I brought dinner,” I said. “But what’s going on?”
He tightened his grip on the locket.
“I thought you couldn’t come, Fiona.”
“Before she died,” he said, “your mother begged me to stay silent.”
A chill ran through me.
“About what?”
Victor glanced toward the kitchen window where Mom used to watch him whenever she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
“About who I am.”
“About what?”
Every day at lunchtime, my mother prepared three meals.
Two remained on our worn kitchen table. The third was packed into whatever plastic container she could clean and reuse for Victor.
I hated it.
My sneakers were patched with tape while Victor always seemed to get the largest piece of chicken. We were struggling too.
I was eleven when I finally said it aloud.
“He eats better than I do, Mom.”
We were poor too.
Mom kept stirring at the stove. “Fiona, don’t start. Please.”
“Mom, the lights got cut off twice this winter,” I said. “But Victor gets lunch every day like he’s family.”
The spoon slipped from her fingers and hit the sink.
“Don’t say his name like that, Fiona. He needs help.”
I crossed my arms. I was hungry, cold, and carrying the kind of bitterness only a wounded child can feel.
“Why? He’s just some man behind our house.”
Mom turned around, her face suddenly pale.
“Victor gets lunch every day like he’s family.”
“No,” she said. “He isn’t just some man.”
“Then who is he?”
For a moment, I thought she might finally answer.
Instead, she placed the warm container into my hands.
“Take him his food, hon.”
I looked at her. “Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”
Mom slammed her hand against the counter so hard that I jumped.
“He isn’t just some man.”
