“Take him his lunch, honey.”
Frustration boiled inside me.
“Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”
My mother slammed her hand against the counter.
The sound startled me.
“Don’t ever say that again,” she snapped. “You have no idea what that man gave up.”
“Gave up for who? You?”
She trembled.
Then she turned away.
“This conversation is over.”
Small Acts I Never Understood
The years passed.
I moved out.
The arguments faded because I stopped asking questions.
But Victor remained.
He was always there.
Sometimes he repaired loose steps on our porch.
Sometimes firewood mysteriously appeared after storms.
When my boots split open during high school, a nearly new pair appeared beside my backpack.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
“Church donation,” Mom answered too quickly.
I glanced outside.
Victor was brushing snow from the front steps.
Even then, I didn’t understand.
My Mother’s Final Request
Cancer changed everything.
The woman who once carried heavy grocery bags with ease became fragile and thin.
Two weeks before she died, I sat beside her hospital bed.
She reached for my hand.
“Fiona.”
“I’m here, Mom.”
“You have to promise me something.”
I leaned closer.
“Rest. We can talk later.”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Victor.”
Immediately, my stomach tightened.
