Part 1The Brother’s Secret Manual

After I accidentally discovered my brother reading my diary.

I was both furious and speechless. In retaliation, I wrote him into my diary:

“I’m a bad girl. How can I have those kinds of feelings for my own brother?”

“They say brotherly love is a sickness, it’s not right, I shouldn’t be like this.”

“But I really can’t control myself…”

From that day on, my brother looked at me like he’d seen a ghost every time he saw me.

I suppressed my laughter and, with increasing fervor, wrote things in my diary to scare him.

Completely oblivious to how my brother’s gaze, from avoiding me in panic, had slowly morphed into a look of tormented suppression.

Until a month later.

An old money couple showed up with a paternity test, and without a word, they embraced my brother, calling him their son.

Me: ?

* * *

As far back as I can remember,

my brother, Asher, has always been by my side.

He was the first person I called after I learned to speak. Dad said I called him "brother" so skillfully, it was as if I was born knowing how to.

At my one-month celebration, so many hands reached out to hold me, but I reached past everyone and clung tightly to his finger.

And as an older brother, Asher never disappointed.

When I was six, I was rushed to the hospital after secretly drinking a bottle of orange-flavored dish soap.

Asher stayed by my bedside for two days and two nights, refusing to eat or drink, looking like a ghost.

When I was eight, I tried to ride our neighbor, an old lady, across the street, and Dad chased me with a stick.

Asher protected me like a mother hen, taking the hits from Dad without backing down.

When I was ten, on my birthday, I solemnly made a wish: “I want to be with my brother forever.”

Asher watched me, shielding the candle flame with his hand.

I slowly looked up, unable to see his face clearly, but I heard him say, word by word:

“Little sister, you don’t need to wish for that.”

When I was fourteen, Asher watched a TV show where a couple stole their family register to get married, and he frowned, asking Dad:

“Why did they steal the family register?”

Dad smiled and explained:

“Because they want to get married.”

“Marriage means putting two people’s names on the same family register.”

Asher was nearly six feet tall by then.

With handsome features and a tall, straight build, he was the target of many girls’ secret glances at school.

After hearing Dad’s explanation,

he realized:

“Oh, I see.”

“Then my sister and I should just get married.”

“We’ve been on the same family register since we were little.”

Dad nearly dropped his teacup.

He grabbed the feather duster nearby and swung it at Asher.

Asher dodged, turning his head to earnestly ask me:

“Little sister, do you think what I said is wrong?”

Without thinking, I nodded directly: “Of course, what brother said is right.”

Dad paused, then silently swapped the feather duster for a shovel, chasing him even more fiercely.