My name was written across the lid.
“She told you?”
Inside were photos, letters, and envelopes.
The first picture showed Mom as a little girl beside Victor. Her knees were scraped. His lip was split.
On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, were the words:
“Victor walked me home again.”
I opened the letter with my name on it.
“Fiona,
If you are reading this, then I wasn’t brave enough to tell you while I was alive.”
“Victor walked me home again.”
“Victor was my brother before he was anything else. He packed my lunch, walked me to school, and gave me the good blanket when there was only one.
Once, when we were kids, he took our mother’s bracelet and tried to sell it. Not for candy. For blankets, because the pipes had frozen and we were freezing.
They never forgave him. Not Mark, not our parents.
