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Tucked inside the application packet was a stack of old photos.
Me at ten, balanced on a stool scrubbing wine jars. Me at twelve, hugging a wooden rake to turn the mash. Me at fifteen, draining the flooded cellar on a night of pounding rain.
Every photo had my face cropped out.
But the paperwork read: Jason Winslow began learning the craft from his father at ten, and could produce mash on his own by his teens.
I set the packet down in front of my father.
"The person in those photos is me."
He didn't even lift his eyes.
"Jason has the degree. That's the only way the application goes through. What good does putting your name on it do?"
"Then don't apply at all."
My mother rushed over at once.
"You've already put him through college. What's one more time?"
I looked at her.
"Which time is ever the last?"
The question made her angry.
"All those times we asked you to help, you never had this much to say."
Jason picked up a photo and lowered his voice, trying to talk me down. "You can't see the face anyway. Whose name it is doesn't matter."
"If it doesn't matter, why does it have to be yours?"
He dropped his head.
That afternoon, my father handed my grandfather's brewing notebook to Jason.
I reached for it, and he knocked my hand away.
"This belongs to the Winslows. It goes to my son from now on."
"Grandpa's name was Walker."
"The craft came into the Winslow house. That makes it Winslow property."
My mother locked the notebook in Jason's cabinet, then bagged up the old books in my room. My brother wanted my room for a livestream studio.
A grammar workbook slipped to the floor, my teacher's red note showing on the page.
"Sabrina is very bright. She'll make it out of Dewbrook one day."
My mother didn't even glance at it. She took it to prop up a wine jar.
I bent down, pulled the workbook out, and knocked the dust off the cover.
It was the only textbook I'd brought home when I left school.
For eight years, I'd sometimes turn a few pages in secret at night, afraid that one day I wouldn't even be able to write my own name.
Seeing me hold on to it, my mother's tone turned sour.
"You're eighteen. What are you playing at, pretending to be a student? Use that time to scrub a couple more jars."
I bent down and pulled the workbook out.
My mother saw it and frowned. "A pile of junk paper, and you're fighting over it? There's nowhere to put your brother's livestream gear."
"This is my only textbook."
"You're eighteen and still thinking about school?" She said it like she'd heard a joke. "Knowing how to make wine will feed you for life. Don't go chasing things that aren't realistic."
Jason walked past the doorway carrying a new computer.
That computer had cost over ten thousand, money I'd earned taking orders two months straight.
He didn't look at the old book in my hands. He only asked our mother which side the livestream desk would look better on.
That same day, my father took an order for three hundred jars in the name of a college-educated heritage craftsman.
He slapped the order down in front of me.
"Don't sleep tonight. Get the first batch of mash started."
"What about Jason?"
"He has his assessment tomorrow. He needs the rest."
I looked at the clock on the wall.
Twenty-seven hours left until the northbound bus.
