“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.
A tear slid 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 filled Mom’s little house with sandwiches and soft voices. She had bought it years later after scraping together every dollar.
Uncle Mark stood near the hallway, already touching boxes.
I stepped toward him. “What are you doing?”
He gave me that calm smile he used when 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 thinned. “You’re grieving. This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
I looked past him, toward the back window. Victor’s shelter sat behind the fence, half hidden by 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 a second, his face changed.
“This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
Then he laughed softly. “She was sick.”
“She was scared.”
“Of me?”
“You tell me.”
He glanced toward the relatives in the living room, then lowered his voice.
“Leave old pain buried, Fiona.”
“She was sick.”
The next morning, I made beef stew because it was the only meal I knew I wouldn’t ruin. I put it in one of Mom’s plastic containers and drove back to my mother’s house.
The first thing I noticed was that Victor’s shelter was empty.
The blanket was folded. The coffee cans were gone. Even the stack of firewood had been lined up neatly.
“Victor?” I called.
“Fiona.”
I turned.
I noticed was that Victor’s shelter was empty.
Victor stood near the back steps in a clean, dark coat. Beside him was a black SUV I didn’t recognize.
My stomach dropped. “Whose car is that?”
Mrs. Bell stepped out of the driver’s side before he could answer.
“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 Victor’s coat.
“Whose car is that?”
He touched the sleeve, embarrassed. “Borrowed too.”
Then I saw the locket in his hand.
“Where did you get my mother’s necklace? I know it from photos.”
His thumb moved over 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?”
“When she was ten, I think. Maybe younger,” he said. “She had a bad day. I told her if she wore it, she could pretend I was walking beside her.”
Mrs. Bell lowered her eyes.
“I gave it to her first.”
Victor opened the locket.
Inside was a faded picture of two kids on porch steps, his arm around her shoulders.
On the back, scratched in childish handwriting, were three words.
“My safe place.”
My throat went dry. “That’s Mom?”
Victor nodded.
“And the boy is you?”
