“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?”
Her hands trembled.
Then she turned away.
“Take him his food, Fiona. This conversation is over.”
So I went.
“Gave up for who? You?”
Victor sat near the fence, rubbing warmth into his hands.
“Your mom make soup today?” he asked.
“Yeah. Chicken.”
A gentle smile appeared on his face.
“That’s her best one.”
“You don’t even know her.”
The smile vanished.
“I know her soup.”
That answer made me resent him even more.
“You don’t even know her.”
The years passed, and eventually I moved out. Mom and I argued less because I stopped asking questions.
But Victor never left.
Sometimes I would see him repairing the loose porch step or stacking firewood after a storm.
One year in high school, my boots split apart. The next day, a used pair appeared beside my backpack.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
“Church donation,” Mom answered far too quickly.
But Victor stayed.
I glanced through the kitchen window.
Victor was brushing snow off the steps.
I simply couldn’t understand.
Then cancer arrived and slowly made my mother smaller.
Stephanie had once carried groceries in both arms and opened doors with her elbows. Near the end, her wrist bones showed beneath her skin.
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 wrapped 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?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“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?”
Her gaze shifted 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 grew tighter.
“He’ll erase him completely.”
“What does Mark have to do with Victor?”
“Erase who?”
“Just promise me, Fiona.”
I wanted answers, but she looked terrified, and I was still her daughter.
“I promise,” I said.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“He was my safe place,” she whispered.
A few days later, she was gone.
“Just promise me, Fiona.”
After the funeral, people crowded Mom’s small house with sandwiches and quiet condolences. Years earlier, she had managed to buy the place after saving every dollar she could.
Uncle Mark stood near the hallway, already sorting through boxes.
I walked toward him.
“What are you doing?”
He gave me the calm smile he used whenever he wanted me to feel unreasonable.
“Helping.”
“By going through her things?”
“Your mother kept too much, Fiona. Old papers. Broken dishes. Things that only made her sad.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll decide what stays.”
His smile narrowed.
“You’re grieving. This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
I looked past him toward the backyard window. Victor’s shelter sat behind the fence, hidden among weeds.
“Funny,” I said. “Mom told me the same thing about you.”
Mark’s hand froze on a cardboard box.
“What did Stephanie say?”
“That if you came around, I shouldn’t let you touch the blue box.”
For an instant, his expression changed.
“This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
Then he laughed quietly.
“She was sick.”
“She was scared.”
“Of me?”
“You tell me.”
He glanced toward the relatives in the living room before lowering his voice.
“Leave old pain buried, Fiona.”
“She was sick.”
The next morning, I made beef stew because it was the only thing I knew how to cook without ruining. I packed it into one of Mom’s containers and drove to her house.
The first thing I noticed was that Victor’s shelter was empty.
The blanket had been folded. The coffee cans were gone. Even the firewood had been stacked neatly.
“Victor?” I called.
“Fiona.”
I turned.
I noticed was that Victor’s shelter was empty.
Victor stood near the back steps wearing a clean dark coat. A black SUV was parked beside him.
My stomach dropped.
“Whose car is that?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Bell stepped out from the driver’s side.
“Borrowed from my nephew,” she said. “Victor wanted to say goodbye to your mother without Mark making a scene. We went to her grave.”
I looked at his coat.
“Whose car is that?”
He touched the sleeve awkwardly.
“Borrowed too.”
Then I noticed the locket in his hand.
“Where did you get my mother’s necklace? I know it from photos.”
His thumb traced the dented silver edge.
“Stephanie gave it to me.”
“That locket was lost.”
“No,” Victor said. “She told you it was.”
“Stephanie gave it to me.”
My chest tightened.
“Why would my mother give you her locket?”
“Because I gave it to her first.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
