“For survival,” she said. “Then Mark grew up and learned how useful shame could be.”
I thought about the boots. The firewood. The porch step.
He had always been there.
As close as they allowed him to be.
“For survival.”
When I returned to Mom’s house, Mark was already there holding the blue box.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Put that down.”
He offered his gentlest smile.
“Fiona, you’re upset. Let me handle this.”
“No,” I said. “You handled enough.”
Then Victor walked in behind me.
Mark’s face hardened.
“Get him out.”
I stepped in front of Victor.
“His name is Victor. He’s Mom’s brother.”
“You handled enough.”
Aunt Linda gasped.
“But you said he died, Mark!”
Mark snapped back.
“Because that was easier.”
“Easier for who?” I asked.
He looked toward his wife, waiting for support.
I raised Mom’s letter.
“She wrote everything down. You threatened her, used her poverty against her, and made her believe loving her brother could cost her daughter.”
“But you said he died, Mark!”
“I protected this family,” Mark said.
“No. You protected the version where Victor didn’t exist.”
Victor’s voice trembled, but he stood tall.
“I chose Stephanie when you chose appearances.”
Mark grabbed his coat.
“You’ll regret this, Fiona. He’ll suck the life out of you. He did that to Stephanie.”
Aunt Linda stepped between him and the hallway table where Mom’s papers were stacked.
“I protected this family.”
“Leave the box,” she said to her husband.
Mark stared at her.
“Linda.”
“No,” she replied, her voice shaking. “You told us he was dead.”
The room fell silent in a completely different way.
Not confused.
Judgmental.
Mark couldn’t find a single friendly face.
Finally, he dropped the box, pulled open the door, and walked out.
“Leave the box.”
