All Love Was His, I Was Locked Sick

Chapter 2

The memories came flooding back, heavy with the feeling of something long buried.

When I was much younger, maybe five or six years old, I really did hate my brother.

If there was only one piece of candy in the house, it was his.

The only apple, cut in half—the larger piece to my brother, the smaller to me.

New clothes always went to my brother first. I wore his old ones, patches upon patches.

Even bedtime stories were for my brother.

Mother's voice was very gentle.

She used to read me The Little Prince, Andersen's Fairy Tales, and all kinds of bedtime stories about stars and the moon.

But she only read those stories to my brother.

I would secretly peek through the c***k in the door, listening to mother say softly, "Jeff, what do you want to hear today?"

"I want to hear 'The Little Mermaid,'" Jeff said.

Mom started reading softly, her voice calm and soothing in the quiet room.

I crouched outside the door, hugging my knees, listening to those beautiful sentences. My heart felt like something was squeezing it.

Why couldn't she read them to me too?

In the summer when I was seven, a neighbor gave us a chicken. Mother made soup. Two golden, glossy chicken legs sat on top.

At dinner, mother carefully put both chicken legs into Jeff's bowl.

"Jeff, eat more. Nourish your body."

I looked at the plain rice and a few stalks of vegetables in my own bowl, and suddenly tears fell.

"Why does Jeff get both chicken legs!" I shouted. "I want some too! I want a chicken leg too!"

Father slammed his fork down on the table.

"Jake! Why are you so unreasonable?"

He stood up, his face pale. "Don't you know your brother isn't well? Don't you know your brother..."

He couldn't finish.

I didn't know.

I only knew that Jeff's face was always pale, that he sometimes coughed, that our parents always looked at him with those sad eyes.

But I didn't know what it meant.

"Why? Why does Jeff get everything?" I cried, jumping down from my chair, pointing at my brother across the table. "Why don't you just die? Give me back all my things!"

Jeff opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Mother stood up suddenly and slapped me across the face.

That was the first time I had been hit so hard.

Jeff tried to rush over to protect me, but mother held him tight.

"Let him learn his lesson," father said. "Let him know what he can say and what he can't."

The next day, I overheard our parents talking in the kitchen.

"Nine years left," mother said, her voice crying.

"I know," father said, his voice hoarse.

"Nine years... only nine years left..."

That was when I learned that my brother really was going to die.

That the numbers others couldn't see above his head were the countdown of his life.

In the living room, mother and father, their eyes red, carefully escorted Jeff back to his room.

I watched, my heart suddenly aching.

"Maybe... we should let Jake out," father said softly.

Mother was silent for a long time.

"Let him bear it a little longer," mother finally said, her voice tired, as if she had used up all her strength. "At least... let Jeff have this birthday in peace. Just this one day. The last day."

I saw mother raise her hand to wipe her eyes.

"Jake will understand," she said, as if convincing herself. "After Jeff is gone, we... we'll make it up to him. We will."

Father didn't speak. He just walked to the kitchen, took out a small piece of bread from the cupboard, and walked toward me.