Escape From My Brother

When I received Mother's call, I was working on the client's annual proposal. Her voice trembled like plastic fluttering in the wind on the phone, saying Jim Lincoln had broken someone's arm. The pen in my hand clicked as its cap rolled under the desk. Jim Lincoln is my younger brother. He graduated from vocational school just six months ago and is working as an apprentice at an auto repair shop, not even having completed his social security contributions. My first reaction was to find a lawyer. I dug up Lawyer Clark's contact from my phonebook, messaged him to schedule a consultation, and booked the earliest high-speed train home. The station was crowded. Clutching my phone at the ticket gate, my mind was filled with Mother's words: "He wants to report to the police, saying if we don't settle privately, Jim will go to jail." I know what going to jail would mean for Jim. With his fiery temper, things would only get worse in there. Three hours later, I stood at the gate of my childhood home, dragging my suitcase. The gate was closed, and inside came Jim Lincoln's crying, like a kitten weaned too soon: "Mom, I really can't go to jail. If I get a record, who'll want to marry me after that?" Mother's voice followed, carrying her usual certainty: "It's not a big deal. Your sister can handle it." My steps froze, my fingers paused on the door handle. "I asked— the father of that boy who got beaten lost his wife ten years ago and has been single ever since." Mother's voice dropped slightly, yet every word floated clearly into my ears: "Have your sister marry into their family, even if it's just a broken arm, no matter how serious, it will be okay." Jim Lincoln's crying stopped, then he said uncertainly, "But sister is already 26, and that old man is almost 60. Would she really be willing?" Mother laughed, a sound like sandpaper scraping wood, "She's just a girl; sooner or later, she has to get married. Besides, has she ever disobeyed me since she was little?" The wind slipped through the crack in the door, carrying the fading scent of the courtyard roses, yet it sent a chill down my spine. Jim Lincoln suddenly laughed, pride ringing in his voice, "Mom, do you remember back when we were kids, you were afraid I'd fight sister for the buns and always gave me the minced meat while she had to eat the skin? Looking back now, sister really was foolish." Mother's scolding voice: "Isn't it all for you? Your sister is soft-hearted and easy to manipulate." Soft-hearted and easy to manipulate. So all these years, this is how she has seen me. I remember when I was ten, Jim Lincoln stole the neighbor's bike and broke the chain while riding it. Mother dragged me to apologize at the neighbor's house, pushing me forward and saying, "Penny was the one being childish, insisting on riding your bike and ended up breaking it." The neighbor looked at me with eyes full of sympathy: "Since Penny is still young, let's just let this go." Mother refused to relent, insisting that I kneel and admit my fault, saying it was the only way to "calm the neighbors down." I knelt on the cement floor, my knees aching painfully. Mother stood beside me, watching silently. That night, Mother steamed two meat buns, scooped out all the minced meat to give to Jim Lincoln, and handed me the leftover dough: "Penny Lincoln, you're the older sister; you need to yield to your brother. The dough tastes good too." At that time, I believed Mother loved me—she just favored my brother more. When he was fifteen, Jim Lincoln got into a fight at school and split the other boy's head open. The teacher called the parents, and Mother told me to go, saying, "You're the older sister; you should talk to the teacher. It's because you didn't watch your brother properly. You need to apologize on his behalf." I refused, so Mother sat on the floor crying and said, "If your father finds out Jim Lincoln is causing trouble at school, he'll definitely beat him. His body is weak; he can't take a beating." In the end, I went to the school, bowed to the teacher, apologized to the injured student, and took all the blame for Jim Lincoln. That day when I got home, Mother held me and said, "Penny, I know this is hard on you, but your brother can't get into trouble." I patted her back and said, "Mom, it’s okay." I took a deep breath and pushed open the courtyard gate. Mother and Jim both froze for a moment. Mother reacted first, forcing a smile: "Penny, you're back?" Jim came over and reached for the bag I'd left on the sofa. "Sis, I'm short on money lately. That bag looks expensive; why don't you sell it?" "It's fake, worthless." I said. Jim Lincoln snorted and threw the bag to the ground; the metal buckle clanged sharply against the floor. Mother glared at Jim, bent down to pick up the bag, dusted it off, and handed it to me. "What are we going to do about this mess he's caused?" "How much compensation are they asking for?" I asked.