I pushed my mother’s hands away and saw a
boy.
A little older than me, maybe seven or eight.
He noticed my gaze and turned slightly, his
dark eyes meeting mine.
The corners of his mouth turned up in small
smile.
I didn’t understand.
His mother was dead.
And he was smiling.
That, more or less, was how I met Alex.
く
And I was a little afraid of this strange boy.
Alex came to live with us.
My parents believed his mother had sacrificed
herself for me, so they took him in. They
constantly reminded me to be nice to Alex
because he’d lost his mother.
But Alex didn’t seem to care, refusing to be
called “brother.”
As an only child, he was just a foster kid,
naturally beneath me.
Having a low–status “brother” had its perks.
I blamed him for everything I did wrong.
く
Whenever my parents caught me, I said it was
Alex’s fault.
He always took the blame, softly assuring me,
“It was my fault, not Sarah’s.”
I started feeling guilty; he covered for me so
much.
Once, when Mom was out, I went looking for
him.
I found him in the garden, watering Mom’s
hyacinths.
He asked, smiling, what I wanted.
I told him, sullenly, that only Mom was
allowed to call me “honey.”
く
Alex teased me, asking what trouble I’d
gotten into this time. Slowly, I accepted him
as my “brother.”
Alex was brilliant, getting into a top
university.
I studied hard, hoping to follow him.
But then his biological father took him away.
For five years, I didn’t see him. Then my world
fell apart.
My parents died, leaving me alone.
I learned to be tough, surviving on my own,
but I faced bullying and harassment.
<
At my lowest point, I stood on a bridge, ready
to end it all.
Alex found me and pulled me back.
He was older, more mature, a real adult now.
He wouldn’t let me throw my life away,
confessing that he loved me.
In those five years apart, I’d realized my own
feelings for him, and I understood his.
He wasn’t seeking revenge or trying to
“keep” me.
He genuinely cared.
The undeniable truth of it moved me deeply.
<
By then, Alex had dealt with his family and
inherited the Carter fortune.
And I had nothing.
People whispered that I was a fragile little
vine, clinging to him for survival.
I thought it was funny and asked Alex what he
thought.
He stroked my hair. “Honey, I’m your brother.
Do you think other twenty–year–olds pay their
own way through college?”
Did they?
Then why did he call me “honey“?
I kissed him, silencing his reassurances.
<
He carried me to bed.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and
thought, I’m not a vine.
Vines strangle their hosts.
And I was… content.
Whether I admitted it or not, after turning
twenty, I was a trumpet vine, twining around
Alex.
If it weren’t for the baby, this unexpected
twist, I would have stayed with him forever,
never even thinking of leaving.
Because of my suicide attempt, Alex had put
trackers and listening devices on me.
Not just on my phone.
I’d felt suffocated by the constant
surveillance and protested. He’d removed the
most obvious ones.
He’d promised, “No more, honey.”
I hadn’t believed him, and I was right.
