The last time I heard her call me “brother” was years ago. She had been bullied by her classmates, her small hands wiping away tears as she ran to me, showing me the bruises on her arms.

“Brother, help me…”

Seeing her tear-streaked, reddened face, I felt a pang of guilt. But then, remembering the deaths of my younger sister and father, my heart grew cold.

I looked at her indifferently. “Compared to the death of our dad and sister, your minor injuries are nothing.”

She was stunned for a few seconds before she ran away, still crying.

From that day on, she never came to me when she was...