When I was young, my parents were away on business all year round, so I was fostered at my grandma's house when I was only three years old. Grandma is a very kind old man. Sometimes I think that it is enough that I have a grandmother who loves me. When I was four years old, I had a little brother. My parents seemed to love him very much and always kept him with me. It wasn't until I was six years old that I gradually understood that I had a younger brother, a biological brother, and that he and I had the same parents. I had always lied to my parents because the younger brother was always with me. But even after twenty years of trying to prove it, I couldn't round out that idea. I know that my parents love my brother very much, and that kind of love is what I have always hoped for. In the autumn when I was eight years old, my grandmother's death made me even more helpless. She held me in her arms and told me stories the first night, but the next day, I touched a cold corpse. I'm autistic and don't want to see anyone. But my parents still took me to their home, gave me a house, and hired a psychiatrist for me. I knew that I was still not welcome, and I could tell this from my brother's eyes. I rarely talked to them. I didn't want to talk and didn't know what to say. It can be said that I lived in silence for ten years. I think it was my wisest move to apply for a university in the north. It was really far away from my home.