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.