A tear slid down her cheek.
“He was my safe place,” she whispered.
A few days later, she was gone.
“Just promise me, Fiona.”
***
After the funeral, people filled Mom’s little house with sandwiches and soft voices. She had bought it years later after scraping together every dollar.
Uncle Mark stood near the hallway, already touching boxes.
I stepped toward him. “What are you doing?”
He gave me that calm smile he used when he wanted me to feel unreasonable.
“Helping.”
“By going through her things?”
“Your mother kept too much, Fiona. Old papers. Broken dishes. Things that only made her sad.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll decide what stays.”
His smile thinned. “You’re grieving. This isn’t the time to make emotional choices.”
I looked past him, toward the back window. Victor’s shelter sat behind the fence, half hidden by weeds.
“Funny,” I said. “Mom told me the same thing about you.”
