He looked at his wife, waiting for her to rescue him.
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."
"But you said he died, Mark!"
"I protected this family," Mark said.
"No. You protected the version where Victor didn't exist."
Victor's voice shook, but he stood tall. "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.
"I protected this family."
"Leave the box," she said to her husband.
Mark stared at her. "Linda."
"No," she said, her voice shaking. "You told us he was dead."
The room went quiet in a different way then. Not confused. Judging.
Mark found no friendly face.
Then he dropped the box, yanked open the door, and left.
"Leave the box."
I turned to Victor.
"Uncle Victor," I said, pulling out a chair. "Come sit down."
I set 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."
He sat slowly, holding the locket.
For the first time in twenty years, Victor's meal didn't leave through the back door.
