“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.
