For twenty years, my mother made sure the homeless boy living behind our house never went hungry. After her funeral, he took Both my hands In his and told me, “Before she d:ie:d, she BEGGED ME TO KEEP HER SECRET FROM YOU.”

“Rachel, don’t speak about Gabriel that way.”

“But we’re your children!”

Her voice became unusually stern.

“That’s enough. I don’t want to hear you say something like that again.”

Then she carried the pie outside.

I stood alone in the kitchen, feeling rejected.

In my eight-year-old mind, there was only one explanation.

My mother loved Gabriel more than she loved me.

After that afternoon, I avoided him whenever possible.

Sometimes Gabriel waved as I walked home from school.