I spent twenty years believing my mother had chosen a homeless man over her own daughter. Even after she passed away, I only kept bringing Victor food because I had given her my word. But the moment he placed her missing locket in my hands, I discovered that Mom had never been concealing charity from me.

She had been concealing family.

The day after my mother’s funeral, the homeless man who had lived behind our house disappeared.

For most of my childhood, Victor had stayed behind our modest rental home in a makeshift shelter built from tarps and salvaged wood. Every single day, my mother brought him food.

When I returned carrying the meal she had pleaded with me to deliver, Victor was standing beside a black SUV, dressed in a clean coat, holding my mother’s silver locket.

The same one she insisted had vanished when I was eight years old.

“I thought you couldn’t come, Fiona,” he said.