“I know her soup.”
For some reason, that made me dislike him even more.
The years went by, and eventually I moved out. Mom and I argued less because I stopped asking questions.
But Victor never left.
Sometimes I noticed him repairing a loose porch step or stacking firewood after storms.
One year in high school, when my boots split apart, a secondhand pair mysteriously appeared beside my backpack.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
“Church donation,” Mom answered too quickly.
I looked through the kitchen window.
Victor was outside brushing snow from the steps.
None of it made sense to me.
Then cancer arrived and slowly shrank my mother.
Stephanie had once carried groceries in both hands and opened doors with her elbows. Near the end, her wrist bones showed beneath her skin.
Two weeks before she died, I sat beside her hospital bed while she nervously picked at the blanket.
“Fiona.”
“I’m here.”
“You have to promise me something.”
I leaned closer.
“Mom, rest.”
“No.”
Her fingers wrapped around my wrist.
“Victor.”
My stomach immediately knotted.
“Not this again.”
“Promise me you’ll feed him.”
“Why?” I whispered. “Why him? Why always him?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I never put him before you.”
“It felt like you did.”
“I know.”
Her voice broke.
“And I’m sorry.”
“Then tell me why.”
She looked toward the doorway.
“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.”
“Erase who?”
“Just promise me, Fiona.”
I wanted answers. I wanted all of them.
But she looked terrified, and no matter how old I was, I was still her daughter.
“I promise,” I said.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“He was my safe place,” she whispered.
A few days later, she was gone.
After the funeral, people filled Mom’s small house with sandwiches and quiet sympathy. She had purchased the place years earlier after saving every dollar she could.
Uncle Mark stood near the hallway already sorting through boxes.
I walked toward him.
“What are you doing?”
He gave me the calm smile he always used when he wanted me to doubt myself.
“Helping.”
“By going through her things?”
“Your mother kept too much, Fiona. Old paperwork. Broken dishes. Things that only reminded her of sadness.”
“I’ll decide what stays.”
His smile tightened.
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