My mother cooked for a homeless man who lived behind our house for 20 years. The day after he fell, he took me by the hand and said something that changed my life.
I crossed my arms. I was cold, hungry, and cruel, as sometimes happens to injured children.
“Why? He’s just some guy who lives behind our house.”
Mom turned to me, her face suddenly pale.
“No,” she said. “He’s not just any man.”
“So, who is he?”
For a moment, I thought he was finally going to answer.
Instead, he placed the warm container in my hands.
“Take the food to her, dear.”
I kept staring at her.
“Perhaps if they stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”
Mom slammed her palm on the counter so hard that I jumped.
“Never say that again. Are you listening to me? You have no idea what that man sacrificed.”
“Who did you give up for? Yourself?”
His body was trembling.
Then she turned around.
—Take the food to her, Fiona. This conversation is over.
So I did it.
Victor was sitting near the fence, rubbing his hands together to warm them.
“Did your mother make soup today?” he asked.
Yes. Chicken.
A gentle smile appeared on his face.
“This is the best one.”
“You don’t even know her.”
The smile disappeared completely.
“I know your soup.”
For some reason, this made me like him even less.
Years passed, and finally, I left home. My mother and I argued less because I stopped asking questions.
But Victor never left.
Sometimes I would see him fixing a loose step on the porch or stacking firewood after storms.
One year, when I was in high school, my boots broke and a pair of used boots mysteriously appeared next to my backpack.
“Where did they come from?” I asked.
“Donation for the church,” Mom answered too quickly.
I looked out the kitchen window.
Victor was outside, shoveling snow from the steps.
None of that made sense to me.
—
Then the cancer arrived and slowly consumed my mother.
Stephanie used to carry groceries with both hands and open doors with her elbows. Towards the end of her life, the bones of her wrists became visible beneath her skin.
Two weeks before her death, I sat beside her hospital bed while she nervously fidgeted with her blanket.
