We were three siblings, each two years apart. I was the middle child, and Little Sister was the youngest — the darling of the entire family. At home, it fell to me, the second brother, to look after her.

I was a weak and sensitive child. The moment Little Sister was out of sight, my heart would pound with fear. When our family was sent to the countryside, I was five and Little Sister was three. Across the way was a blacksmith's shop, and we would stand transfixed, watching sparks fly as the metal took shape.

I used to carry Little Sister on my back as I ran down the street. One day, she went tumbling headfirst over my shoulder — face bruised and swollen. She never let me carry her again. Not far behind our house was a little pond. Little Sister reached for a water chestnut and tumbled in. The elder blacksmith brother jumped in and pulled her out.

Little Sister was well-behaved — pampered but never spoiled. Whenever I got a treat, I always saved half for her. Fruit was a luxury — she ate delicately, always leaving a large core behind. My brother and I would compete: "Core collection station now open!" She was always fair.

At seventeen, I left home. My concern for Little Sister never faded until she married — her husband is honest, intelligent, and caring. I went abroad and didn't return for ten years. Only then did I learn that Little Sister had twice narrowly escaped death. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. She smiled bitterly: "What would have been the use? You were on the other side of the world." She sighed: "They say both brothers have done so well. But what good is it? We barely even see each other." Her words cut me deep.

Now we've all reached middle age and beyond, but in a brother's eyes, Little Sister will always be Little Sister — the one who needs protecting.