—

I rushed inside and tore through Mom’s closet until I found the blue box hidden beneath old blankets.

My name was written across the lid.

Inside were photographs, letters, and envelopes.

The first picture showed Mom as a little girl standing beside Victor. Her knees were scraped. His lip was split.

On the back, in Mom’s handwriting, were the words:

“Victor walked me home again.”

I opened the letter addressed to me.

“Fiona,

If you are reading this, then I wasn’t brave enough to tell you while I was alive.”

“Victor was my brother before he was anything else. He packed my lunch, walked me to school, and gave me the good blanket when there was only one.

Once, when we were kids, he took our mother’s bracelet and tried to sell it. Not for candy. For blankets, because the pipes had frozen and we were freezing.

They never forgave him. Not Mark, not our parents.

Mark used that story for years. “Victor steals,” he’d say, even after Victor kept me warm.

Then Victor got sick, and our family punished him for becoming the kind of person they already wanted to throw away.”

“Mark said Victor was dangerous. He said I was too poor to understand risk. When you were little, he told me that if I let Victor near you, people would ask whether I was fit to be your mother.

I believed he could take you from me.

So I made the worst bargain of my life. I kept Victor alive, but I let you think he was a stranger.

Please don’t let Mark put him outside again.

Love, Mom.”

I grabbed the box and ran next door.