I have an adorable little brother. He came into this world when I was eight.

At that time, Mom and Dad brought me to the hospital's newborn baby ward. Separated by the incubator, I first caught a glimpse of that little fellow.

I asked Mom if he could play with me in the future. I would give him all my toys.

Mom only wiped away her tears and informed me that there had been a small issue.

I might not be able to meet him anytime soon, she said. For now, I could only watch him from the other side of the gla.s.s.

"Your brother can't come home with us just yet. He'll be staying here for a long time."

Later on, I discovered that Mom had given birth to me naturally.

Unsurprisingly, she chose the same method when it came to my little brother, except it took her a long time this round.

Because the umbilical cord was around his neck, it took much effort for little brother to come out safely.

I would often ask my parents about his whereabouts.

And they never once told me.

They only discussed the matter privately in their room

Each session would conclude with Mom bawling her eyes out.

We would visit little brother a few times each month and he was always sleeping peacefully in his incubator.

He was, more often than not, in a deep sleep and seldom opened his eyes.

When he was awake, however, he enjoyed smiling goofily at me as much as I enjoyed pulling ugly faces at him.

Whenever that happened, I would ask Mom if he could be discharged soon.

And she would always give the same answer: "Very soon."

But years pa.s.sed, one after another.

Finally, when I was about to complete fourth grade, Mom and Dad brought him home for the first time.

Mom smiled and encouraged me to play with him.

I noticed that he kept smiling goofily at me.

He was smiling goofily at everything in fact. He appeared rather sluggish.

I asked Mom if he was a r.e.t.a.r.d.

I remember getting slapped so hard by her that day. I could still feel the sting on my face.

If I recall correctly, that was the first and last time she had ever hit me.

During elementary grade six, I was always one of the best performing students in the cla.s.s.

Little brother had learned to talk by then.

His first word wasn't 'Mom' or 'Dad' but 'Brother', a word that I taught him.

He was so happy and I knew he liked me.

When other kids were running about downstairs I enjoyed playing plastic toys with him.

I was more than happy to give them all to him.

He collected and kept them under his bed until there was no s.p.a.ce left.

We had fun, mostly, except when our relatives came to visit.

They would talk about useless stuff like how I shouldn't play with my brother.

"You're such a smart kid. Don't let a r.e.t.a.r.d affect your future."

They thought I was too young to understand things but they were wrong. I knew better than them.

My brother might be a little slow but I love him.

And he loves me too. Anyway, that's the reason why I hate those relatives so much.

Of course, I hated school, too, since little brother can't tag along.

He would bawl his eyes out when I leave for school every day.

I remember how the teacher would ask about our aspirations.

The year before last, I wanted to be a chef so I could cook nice dishes for little brother.

Last year, I wanted to be a cop so I could protect him.

This year, however, I wanted to be a doctor so I could cure his illness.

I attended junior middle school at thirteen but little brother did not start kindergarten when he turned five.

Mom said that kindergartens weren't suitable for him, which got me thinking about how I hated attending kindergarten as well and often cried there.

I figured it was for the best since little brother loved crying and school would be worse for him.

Mom resigned long ago in order to take care of him. She taught him how to write and draw.

I would also try to teach him language and math but he wasn't into learning.

I would coax him into studying by bringing out all my toys.

Nothing worked. His comprehension abilities were very lacking.

I had to repeat simple things multiple times before he could remember them.

For a day at that. I gradually understood how severe his condition really was.

I never thought about giving up because I knew that he was just slower than average.

I still had to teach him whatever he needed to learn.

Time was all it took, and indeed, little brother could eventually recite the multiplication table with ease.

By then, I was fifteen and was about to embark on my third year.

He was seven and should be starting on elementary school.

Mom wasn't too keen on it. She was worried that he would be bullied by his cla.s.smates.

I felt the same way.

Unable to persuade her, Dad had no choice but to agree on homeschooling.

It was the beginning of all nightmares.