I almost dropped the food container.
“Victor? How?”
Without the beard, he looked older. His eyes were exhausted and rimmed with red.
“I brought dinner,” I said. “But what’s going on?”
His hand tightened around the locket.
“Before she died,” he said, “your mother begged me to stay silent.”
A chill rushed through me.
“About what?”
Victor glanced toward the kitchen window where Mom used to watch him whenever she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
“About who I am.”
Every afternoon, my mother packed three meals.
Two remained on our worn kitchen table.
The third went into whichever plastic container she had washed and saved for Victor.
