“Fiona, you’re upset. Let me handle this.”
“No,” I said. “You handled enough.”
Then Victor stepped in behind me.
Mark’s expression hardened immediately.
“Get him out.”
I moved in front of Victor.
“His name is Victor. He’s Mom’s brother.”
Aunt Linda gasped.
“But you said he died, Mark!”
Mark snapped back.
“Because that was easier.”
“Easier for who?” I asked.
He looked toward his wife, waiting for support.
I lifted Mom’s letter.
“She wrote everything down. You threatened her, used her poverty against her, and made her believe loving her brother could cost her daughter.”
“I protected this family,” Mark said.
“No. You protected the version where Victor didn’t exist.”
Victor’s voice shook, but he stood straight.
“I chose Stephanie when you chose appearances.”
Mark grabbed his coat.
“You’ll regret this, Fiona. He’ll suck the life out of you. He did that to Stephanie.”
“I already regret too much,” I said. “But not this.”
Aunt Linda stepped between him and the hallway table where Mom’s papers were stacked.
“Leave the box,” she told her husband.
Mark stared at her.
“Linda.”
“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “You told us he was dead.”
The room fell silent.
Not confused silence.
Judgment.
Mark searched the room and found no ally.
Then he dropped the box, yanked open the door, and walked out.
I turned toward Victor.
“Uncle Victor,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Come sit down.”
I placed two bowls of soup on Mom’s chipped kitchen table.
Victor stopped at the doorway.
“I can eat outside.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t eat outside anymore. Tonight, you’re staying here. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out the rest together.”
Slowly, he sat down, still holding the locket.
For the first time in twenty years, Victor’s meal didn’t leave through the back door.
It remained at the table.
Right where family belonged.
