“But it’s true,” I argued. “The lights have been shut off twice this winter, and Victor gets lunch every day like he’s family.”
The spoon slipped from her hand.
Her face turned pale.
“Don’t say his name like that.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “He’s just some man behind our house.”
My mother’s expression changed instantly.
“No,” she said firmly. “He isn’t just some man.”
I stared at her.
“Then who is he?”
For a moment, I thought she would finally tell me.
Instead, she handed me the food container.
“Take him his lunch, honey.”
Frustration boiled inside me.
“Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”
My mother slammed her hand against the counter.
The sound startled me.
“Don’t ever say that again,” she snapped. “You have no idea what that man gave up.”
“Gave up for who? You?”
She trembled.
Then she turned away.
“This conversation is over.”
Small Acts I Never Understood
The years passed.
I moved out.
