Mom had always been that kind of person. She returned lost wallets, brought soup to sick neighbors, and never passed a stranded driver without slowing down. But the next afternoon, she fed him again. Then the next. My father, Peter, had died only three months earlier. His heart had stopped without warning while he was repairing a fence for a customer. He was forty-six. After his death, every dollar in our house seemed to have a job before it arrived. Mom worked mornings at a bakery and spent evenings cleaning offices. She kept our bills in separate envelopes and counted grocery money at the kitchen table every Sunday. We ate a lot of soup. Sometimes dinner was potatoes and toast. Sometimes Mom claimed she had already eaten at work, though I often found her sitting alone later with a cup of tea. Still, Dorian received a meal every day.
If we had chicken, Mom saved him a piece. If she brought home day-old rolls from the bakery, she placed two in a paper bag for him before I was allowed to touch them. I watched her cross the empty lot each afternoon, holding a covered plate against her chest. Dorian always stood when he saw her. He took the food with both hands and thanked her quietly. I hated the way he looked at her. There was trust in his eyes. The kind of trust I thought belonged only to me. One Saturday, the smell of apples and cinnamon filled our kitchen. I ran downstairs and found an apple pie cooling on the counter. It was my favorite dessert, and Mom had not baked one since Dad died. For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to happiness. “Is that for dinner?” I asked. Mom folded a clean cloth over the pie. “No, sweetheart. There’s vegetable soup on the stove.” My smile disappeared.
“Then who is the pie for?” She did not look at me. “Dorian.” The answer hurt more than it should have. Maybe it was not really about the pie. Maybe it was about Dad being gone, Mom always being tired, and the empty chair at our table. But I was eight. I did not know how to explain grief. I only knew Dorian was receiving something I wanted. “You made him a whole pie?” “He hasn’t eaten properly in days.” “Neither have we!” Mom stopped wrapping the dish. “Kendra.” “Why does he always get the good food? He isn’t family.” Her face changed. “Never say that about Dorian again.” She did not shout, but the sharpness in her voice frightened me. Tears filled my eyes. “You care more about him than me.” Pain crossed her face. I waited for her to deny it, put the pie down, and pull me into her arms.
Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she carried the pie outside.
I stood alone in the kitchen, crying so hard that my chest hurt.
From that day on, I hated Dorian with the complete, unreasonable hatred only a lonely child could manage.
Whenever Mom gave him food, I imagined something being taken from me.
When she bought him a warm coat from a secondhand store, I remembered the winter boots she said we could not afford.
When she helped him fill out forms at the kitchen table, I sat upstairs and refused to come down.
Dorian tried to be kind.
Once, he repaired the loose wheel on my bicycle while I was at school. I accused him of touching my things and pushed the bicycle into the garage without thanking him.
Another time, he carved a small wooden rabbit and left it on our porch.
I threw it into the weeds.
He saw me do it.
His face fell, but he did not become angry.
“You don’t have to like me,” he said. “I just thought you might want it.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
He nodded.
After that, he stopped trying.
Dorian remained near the old shed for almost two years. Then, one morning, he was gone.
His blankets had disappeared. The metal sheet had been pulled down, and the ground where he slept was empty.
I expected Mom to be relieved.
Instead, she stood at the kitchen window for a long time.
“Where did he go?” I asked, pretending not to care.
“He found work in another town.”
“Good.”
Mom looked at me, but she said nothing.
The years that followed did not repair what had broken between us.
By high school, I had become skilled at avoiding serious conversations. Mom and I spoke about grades, chores, and what time I would be home. We did not speak about Dad. We never spoke about Dorian.
The moment I graduated, I moved three hours away.
At first, I came home for holidays. Then I began making excuses.
Work was busy.
The roads were bad.
I could not afford the trip.
