“About what?”
***
At lunch every day, my mother packed three meals.
Two stayed on our chipped kitchen table. The third went into whatever plastic container she could wash and reuse for Victor.
I hated that.
I hated that my sneakers had tape over the toes while Victor got the biggest piece of chicken. We were poor too.
I was eleven the first time I said it out loud.
“He eats better than I do, Mom.”
We were poor too.
Mom didn’t look up from 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 hand and clattered into the sink.
“Don’t say his name like that, Fiona. He needs help.”
I folded my arms. I was hungry, cold, and mean in the way only a hurt child can be.
“Why? He’s just some man behind our house.”
Mom turned then, and her face had gone 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 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.
