I hated watching tape cover the holes in my sneakers while Victor received the largest piece of chicken. We were struggling too.
I was eleven when I finally said what had been building inside me.
“He eats better than I do, Mom.”
Mom kept stirring at the stove without looking up.
“Fiona, don’t start. Please.”
“Mom, the lights got shut off twice this winter,” I said. “But Victor gets lunch every day like he’s family.”
The spoon slipped from her fingers and clanged into the sink.
“Don’t say his name like that, Fiona. He needs help.”
I crossed my arms. I was cold, hungry, and cruel in the way wounded children sometimes are.
“Why? He’s just some man behind our house.”
Mom turned toward me, her face suddenly drained of color.
“No,” she said. “He isn’t just some man.”
“Then who is he?”
For a moment, I thought she was finally going to answer.
Instead, she pressed 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 slammed her palm against the counter so hard that I jumped.
“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?”
Her body trembled.
Then she turned away.
“Take him his food, Fiona. This conversation is over.”
So I did.
