1.
Everyone said I was stupid. Only my older sister never looked down on me.
She often said, “Our Bảo Châu is the prettiest, our Bảo Châu is the cleverest, our Bảo Châu is the best girl in the world.”
But my older sister didn’t know that she was the best girl in the world.
Year after year, my sister protected me without ever once complaining.
During the years when our parents and brothers couldn’t protect me, she kept me safe.
My sister often said, “Bảo Châu! You see? There’s always hope for the future.”
I didn’t know what I was supposed to hope for, either. But whatever my sister hoped for, I hoped for it too.
I hoped and hoped, and in the end our parents and brothers all returned safely. I moved into a grand residence and became the younger sister of Minister Ôn.
I had everything I wanted to eat, wear, and adorn myself with. Life had clearly gotten better, but I had lost my sister.
My sister said she had to go back to her hometown and marry Cẩu Đản, the village boy. After she got married, she would return to Biện Kinh and come get me, and then I could stay with her forever.
But my sister was nowhere to be found. She didn’t marry Cẩu Đản from the village, and she didn’t return to Biện Kinh.
My sister didn’t want me anymore. She’d abandoned me.
My eldest brother sent people to look for her, but they never found a trace of her.
Mother cried until she nearly fainted, muttering that my sister was such a naughty child—did she mean to break her mother’s heart to death?
My father sat beneath the eaves all day, not eating, drinking, or speaking.
My second and third elder brothers frowned and sighed over and over.
I tugged at my eldest brother and asked where my sister had gone.
Did she not want me anymore?
My eldest brother was usually very stern and didn’t say much.
Only that day did he pat my head and say softly, “You’re the person your sister loves most. How could she not want you? She’ll come back.”
When he finished, he even smiled.
My eldest brother was very capable, so I believed him.
I’d never liked crying, even as a child. I’d heard that people with a foolish sickness were often like that.
After my sister left, I put her favorite peach-blossom cakes in the cupboard. They went moldy, and still she didn’t come back.
Mother made my sister and me a set of ruby jewelry. I put it on my dressing table and looked at it every day, hoping that one day my sister would suddenly come home, pick it up and admire it, then pat my head and say, “Our Bảo Châu has grown up. She knows how to love her sister now.”
The jewelry grew dusty. I wiped it again and again, but she still didn’t come home.
I went crying to my eldest brother. Spring was over—why hadn’t my sister come back yet?
My eldest brother was painting. The woman in the picture had smiling, crescent-shaped eyes and a braid hanging over her chest. She wore an old blue cloth shirt, just like my sister.
The woman in the picture was my sister. It was my sister.
“There’s a very tall old locust tree behind the house. You and I can move a ladder over and wait for your sister on a branch. If she comes back, you’ll see her right away.”
My eldest brother moved the ladder, and the two of us sat on a branch all day.
It was summer, but it wasn’t too hot, and there was even a little breeze.
“Eldest Brother, I want the wontons my sister used to make.” I swallowed.
“So do I.” He lowered his head. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a gentle smile.
My eldest brother was very busy. How could he have time to be with me every day?
I had nothing to do each day, so I climbed up onto the branch and sat there alone.
From far away, the city of Đông Kinh rose in tier upon tier of tall buildings, blocking my view. I had to crane my neck, trying to see farther and farther.
In summer, my sister often sewed me new thin cotton undershirts. I liked to run around and got sweaty, so it was better to have a few to change into.
At night, I hugged the picture of my sister as I fell asleep and whispered to it.
“Sister, I’ve grown taller again. My undershirt’s too tight now. When are you coming home?”
Mother came looking for me and happened to hear. She hugged me and cried all over again.
Mother always said my sister was our family’s lucky star, and that without her, the Ôn family wouldn’t be what it was today.
My sister was our parents’ very heart and soul. They must have suffered so much, not knowing where she was.
I wasn’t sad. I would wait for my sister to come home, always do as she said, eat and sleep well every day, and live happily. If she knew I was being good, she would surely come back.
Mother gave me a lot of small silver coins. I didn’t spend a single one; I saved them all in my money box and took them out to count every day.
My sister loved counting money. Every time she did, she smiled brightly, her eyes curving into crescents as she said, “Bảo Châu, look—we’ve saved even more money! When you get married, I’ll make sure to save up a generous dowry for you.”
Now I had money too. I wanted to save a dowry for my sister.
Beyond the wall was a spacious, sunlit courtyard.
Every morning, someone would shout as he practiced with a saber or a sword.
He was tall, his face not as fair as my brothers’, with a square jaw that made him look stern and imposing.
When he practiced swordsmanship, the silver blade seemed joined to his hand, sweeping and darting with graceful ease. It was beautiful to watch.
When I tired of looking into the distance, I watched the man beyond the wall instead. He liked wearing a suit of black armor, and his legs looked very long.
My sister once said that it didn’t matter whether a man was handsome. What mattered most was that he had long legs—men with long legs weren’t afraid of hard work.
I knew who he was.
He was Prince Hoài, named Triệu Thập An, a young general stationed on the frontier who had only recently returned to the capital.
He had inherited his title from a rebellious uncle. The royal family was cold toward him, and they had given him a title like that to keep him constantly on his guard.
I liked talking to myself. Sometimes he would hear me and ask a question. At first he would stand and listen, but later he began sitting on the wall.
I could talk about my sister for three days without getting tired of it.
He didn’t like to smile or interrupt. He was a very good listener.
It was just that sometimes he seemed even sillier than I was.
I told him about how my sister and I had lived in a warehouse beside the Biện River. The rats there were bigger than cats. My sister took off her shoe and threw it at one, but the rat dragged her shoe away. The next day, she was missing one shoe.
My sister still had to go to work, so she wore my shoes while I put on one of hers and sat by the river waiting for her.
He asked why we hadn’t bought a new pair of shoes.
Tell me, wasn’t he an idiot?
My sister was saving her money to rent a boat. If she’d bought shoes, how many days would it have taken her to earn back what she spent?
After work, my sister sat by the river and wove a pair of grass sandals. That afternoon seemed different somehow. The sky was golden, and the dim light fell on her, making her look both strong and gentle.
When she finished weaving the grass sandals, my sister walked back and forth in front of me, saying they were even more comfortable than cloth shoes.
I asked Triệu Thập An if he’d ever worn grass sandals.
One day, while my sister was asleep, I secretly tried them on. They were terribly uncomfortable, and my feet ached. My sister wore shoes like those while working at the port.
All day long.
For some reason, it felt as if my eyes were full of water, so full that they couldn’t hold another drop. It could only spill out, over and over.
He sat on the wall and looked at me. After a long while, he finally said, “Don’t cry. Your sister would be so sad if she knew you were crying.”