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She didn’t open the envelope. Just clutched it to her chest and whispered, “Thank you.”
My little sister— imouto-chan —sat across the table, poking her rice with a chopstick like it held the secrets of the universe. Her wallet, a frayed kitten-shaped pouch I’d given her three birthdays ago, lay flat and empty beside her chopstick rest. my imouto has no money
“It’s not much,” I said. “But stop skipping lunch.” She didn’t open the envelope
That night, I heard her crying quietly through the paper-thin wall. Not from shame. From relief. but that stubborn
“I know.”
She stared at it. Then her eyes glossed over—not with sadness, but that stubborn, angry love of someone who hates needing help.