88. Only Mine

[VECTOR]

I was ten when my sister Emma was born. She was this small, delicate thing that I was too scared to even touch. Her big doe eyes were like pools of laughter and innocence that spilled from her mouth every time she giggled and thrashed her little arms around, wanting attention, wanting someone to hold her, carry her around, keep her squeezed against their touch.

She used to love it when our mother used to talk to her, holding a long and silly conversation while little Emma babbled away, God knows what. But that hardly mattered when I was too busy wiping sweat off my palms, wondering if I would finally get to hold her.

Mom wanted me to not shy away, always telling me that I was supposed to protect her. Dad, however, seemed a little unsure. He sincerely believed that I needed to grow up a little more if I wanted that kind of responsibility. And I always believed he was right. That I needed to grow not only physically but mentally. That I needed to make myself capable, just like