“Gave up for who? You?”
She trembled.
Then she turned away.
“Take him his food, Fiona. This conversation is over.”
So I did.
Victor sat near the fence, rubbing his hands against the cold.
“Your mom make soup today?” he asked.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“Promise me you’ll feed him.”
“Why?” I whispered. “Why him? Why always him?”
Her eyes filled.
“I never put him before you.”
