ANDI'S POV
It was a quiet Sunday. No school, no errands, and zero distractions. We were just the three of us lounging in the living room with Stranger Things paused on the screen and the smell of chicken nuggets wafting from the oven.
Bella was sprawled on the floor with her sketchpad while Gesly lazily scrolled through his phone.
Then, I stood up in front of them.
I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow, putting on my "Business Face." This was the look usually reserved for quarterly budget breakdowns and monthly expense reports.
"Okay, listen," I said.
Bella looked up instantly. Gesly rolled his eyes.
"Whenever she says okay, listen, a soul dies," he whispered to Bella. She giggled, but I didn't join in. I was dead serious.
"I want us to talk about something important."
Gesly groaned, slouching further into the sofa. "Ate, if this is about my group project—"
"Sex," I said. I didn't sugarcoat it. I just dropped the word like a grenade in the middle of the rug.
The room went vacuum-silent.
Bella blinked, her voice small. "Sex, po?"
Gesly let out a loud, agonized groan. "Ate, come on!"
"Nope. Sit down. Shut up. Listen."
They did. When I use that tone, they know they have no choice. It's the voice that says 'I love you, so I'm going to scar you now before life does it worse later.'
"I know you're both minors," I began, pacing the small space between the TV and the sofa. "But that doesn't mean you aren't exposed. Social media exists. Curiosity exists. Hormones exist. Let's not be stupid."
Bella tilted her head. "What are hormones?"
"Chemicals in your body that make you do dumb things," I explained. "Like catching feelings, getting horny, or thinking your crush is actually your soulmate."
"Eww!" Bella yelled, shielding her face with her sketchbook. Gesly looked like he wanted to teleport to the moon.
I didn't flinch. I kept my voice emotionless and informative, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. "I understand that one day, you'll get curious. You'll want to explore. That's human. It's normal."
Bella's eyes went wide. Gesly muttered a faint, "Oh my God."
"But—and this is non-negotiable—you only do it when you're in a real relationship. Not because you're bored, or because of peer pressure, or because everyone's doing it. And when you do? Use protection. Always."
I felt like a TED Talk speaker dealing with generational trauma.
"If you're a guy, you use condoms. If you're a girl, you look into birth control. Both of you? Get tested for HIV and STDs."
Bella raised a tentative hand. "What are STDs?"
"Consequences you get when you're careless," I said firmly. "And they won't just break your heart. They'll break your immune system."
Gesly's face was a shade of deep crimson. "Ate, why are you saying all this now?"
"Because I don't want you ending up like those kids no one talked to. The ones who got fooled, abandoned, or pregnant. And I swear to you..." I stopped pacing and looked them both dead in the eye. "If either of you gets pregnant or gets someone pregnant before the right time, I will disown you."
Bella gasped. Gesly just stared at me, frozen.
"Ate, that's harsh," he managed to say.
"It's the truth. I won't feed you. I won't defend you. I won't side with you. You make a stupid choice, you deal with the fallout. That's it."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the aircon and the sharp beep-beep of the oven timer.
"So… no having a crush?" Bella whispered.
I sighed, finally letting my shoulders drop. I sat down between them on the sofa. "Having a crush isn't banned, Bella. Being stupid is."
I pulled them both into a side hug, squeezing tight. "I know this is weird. But I want you to learn this from me, not from some random person or the wrong corner of the internet."
"Like TikTok?" Gesly asked, his voice returning to normal.
"Exactly," I said with a dry laugh. "TikTok and horny classmates who think unprotected sex is romantic."
"Gross," Bella said, wrinkling her nose.
I smiled, kissing the top of her head. "Exactly again."
---
If there was one thing I couldn't control—and God knows I tried—it was shopping.
It wasn't the reckless, max-out-the-cards kind of habit. It was calculated and style-driven. If it looked good, it was coming home with us. Every weekend, rain or shine, we were at the mall. It was our version of bonding, a reward after a week of stress and quiet sacrifices.
But for me, it was war.
It was a constant battle between my brain, which screamed about responsibility, and my fashionista soul, which whispered, "But look how good that jacket fits Gesly."
"Pak! You look like a princess. You just need the shoes," I declared, pointing at Bella. She had just stepped out of the fitting room in a yellow sundress with puffed sleeves and lace details. She twirled like she was auditioning for a Disney movie.
"Ate, isn't this expensive?" Bella asked, clutching the tag with a terrified expression.
"Bella," I said, my voice dropping into my 'serious' register. "If it looks good, it's not expensive. It's an investment. You can't go through life shopping in the Bitter Department just because people are insecure."
Gesly snorted from the bench, surrounded by paper bags. He was already holding a new button-down and the fresh white sneakers I'd insisted were pang-porma so he'd look sharp for his weekend outings.
"Next time, bring a cart. I'm not your mule," he complained.
"You're just too much fun to dress up," I countered, holding up three hangers with a polo, a jacket, and a knitted vest. "You're a walking Pinterest board, Gesly. It's a crime not to maximize your potential."
We went from store to store. I touched fabrics, checked stitching, and eyed the racks like a hawk in heels. Sometimes I'd buy, sometimes I wouldn't. But when I found something perfect for one of them, there was no discussion. I swiped the card immediately.
"No matter the cost, it's worth it," I whispered to myself, watching Gesly try on a chocolate-brown bomber jacket. "You look like you have a trust fund, but with empathy. I love that for you."
"Ate, my arms are full. I have four bags already," Gesly groaned.
"It's exercise. You know girls love biceps."
Bella, meanwhile, was busy with a soft-serve cone from the food court. "She's in her rich-tita era again," she muttered to her brother.
But after hours of patrolling the aisles, there was one thing I couldn't escape: sore feet.
I refused to wear flats. Absolutely not. Flats were for lazy days and defeated souls. Even in a casual outfit, I wore three-inch nude heels from the food court all the way to the grocery's wine section.
By five p.m., at our fifth boutique, I finally collapsed onto a bench with a heavy sigh.
"Wait… my heels are stabbing me."
"Then buy Crocs," Gesly said, unbothered while munching on fries.
I glare at the ungrateful bastard. "You think I'd trade my dignity for rubber slippers? Don't insult me."
"I thought you were all about practicality," Bella chimed in, tilting her head.
I shot them both a look. "Practical doesn't mean ugly."
We ended the day with three bags each, two new books from the bookstore, a giant box of takoyaki for the ride home, and one pair of emergency slippers I finally gave in and bought because I simply couldn't take it anymore.
"My feet hurts," I groaned as we headed for the exit. "They might actually resign."
I had many plans and even more secrets, but I had one glaring flaw: fashion.
Still, if my siblings looked good, if they walked with confidence and felt proud of who they were becoming, then I'd limp in heels and overspend for it.
Every single time.