When I was eight, my mother gave our best food to a homeless teenager while my family struggled to eat, leaving me convinced he had taken something precious from me. After her funeral, I finally went looking for him and found a man I barely recognized waiting outside our old house in Bluebell Valley.
I was eight years old when Gabriel began sleeping beside the municipal dump beyond Oakridge Avenue, huddled under a sheet of rusted roofing tin. He looked eighteen, maybe younger, with hollow cheeks, dirty sleeves, and the careful eyes of someone who expected trouble from everyone he met.
Dad had died that spring, leaving Mom with unpaid bills, overwhelming grief, and a kitchen where every meal required its own quiet arithmetic. Still, every afternoon, Mom packed a plate, wrapped it in silver foil, and walked toward the dump without explaining herself to anyone.
Sometimes Gabriel received baked chicken while my little brother and I ate thin broth soup. Sometimes he got fresh bread while Mom claimed she was not hungry at all.
