“My shoes are falling apart, Mom, and we are spending our last three dollars on chicken for a man who sleeps in the dirt,” I said.
She did not move.
“We do what we must,” she whispered.
By eight o’clock, the wind had picked up, whistling through the gaps in the kitchen door frame. I sat at the table with my medical terminology textbook, but my eyes kept drifting to the dark yard outside.
Mother sat opposite me, darning an old pair of wool socks by the light of a single yellow bulb.
“Did he do something for you?” I asked, closing the book with a heavy thud.
She stopped her needle mid-stitch but did not look up.
“Did Victor give up something for you, Mom? Is that why we owe him?”
She carefully laid the sock on the table and stood up, her movements stiff.
“Fiona, drop the subject,” she said, her voice thin and breathy.
“I want to know why we are living like this,” I said, adjusting my watch strap again.
