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.”

Her condition was critical.

I left immediately.

When I reached her hospital room, Mom looked smaller than I remembered.

I sat beside her and took her hand.

“I’m here, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m sorry we lost so much time.”

Her fingers tightened around mine.

I promised to handle the house, the bills, and anything else that needed attention.

Then she struggled to speak.

“Rachel… please…”

I leaned closer.

“I’m listening.”

Her voice was barely audible.

“Don’t abandon Gabriel. Promise me.”

For a moment, the old resentment returned.

Even now, after all these years, Gabriel was the person she wanted me to remember.

“I promise,” I whispered.

Mom closed her eyes.

She passed away later that day.

After the funeral, I prepared a pot of beef stew, packed some fresh bread, and drove toward our old neighborhood.

I intended to find Gabriel, give him the food, and fulfill my promise.