I nearly dropped the container.
“Victor? How?”
He looked older without the beard. His eyes were red and tired.
“I brought dinner,” I said. “But what’s going on?”
His fingers closed around the locket.
“I thought you couldn’t come, Fiona.”
“Before she died,” he said, “your mother begged me to stay silent.”
My blood went cold.
“About what?”
Victor looked toward the kitchen window, where Mom used to watch him when she thought I wasn’t looking.
“About who I am.”
“About what?”
***
At lunch every day, my mother packed three meals.
Two stayed on our chipped kitchen table. The third went into whatever plastic container she could wash and reuse for Victor.
I hated that.
I hated that my sneakers had tape over the toes while Victor got the biggest piece of chicken. We were poor too.
I was eleven the first time I said it out loud.
