The Man I Resented
Growing up, my mother packed three lunches every day.
Two stayed on our kitchen table s.
The third always went to Victor.
I hated it.
We weren’t rich. Far from it.
There were winters when our electricity got shut off. Times when my shoes were held together with tape.
Yet somehow Victor always got a hot meal.
When I was eleven, I finally said what I had been thinking for years.
“He eats better than I do, Mom.”
My mother froze at the stove.
“Fiona, please don’t start.”
“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.
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