He looked up at me with those same careful eyes, but this time they held something else: hope.
“I promised her that if I ever made it, I’d wear a suit to prove it. To show her I was okay.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope, worn at the edges like it had been handled a hundred times.
Inside was a photo of me and Mom at the fair. Young. Happy. Holding cotton candy. In the corner, slightly blurred, stood Eli.
I pressed the photo to my chest, sobbing.
He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope.
“She didn’t just feed me,” Eli added. “She saved me. And she did it so quietly you never even knew.”
He picked up the lilies, hands trembling.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak.
***
We drove to the cemetery together. The food was still warm on the passenger seat.
He placed the flowers gently on Mom’s grave and whispered something I didn’t catch.
Then he looked at me, tears streaming down his face.
“She asked me something else. Before she got too sick to talk much.”
“What?”
“She asked if I’d look out for you. Not in a creepy way. Just as someone who understands what it’s like to lose everyone you love.”