My Birthright Wine Became My Brother's Victory Toast

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The next morning a new sign went up over the winery door.

"Winslow Winery, Third-Generation Heir — Jason Winslow."

Jason ran the livestream in a spotless white brewing coat while I stood off camera, minding the temperature and turning the starter.

Someone asked how you could tell the mash was ready. He didn't have an answer, and turned to look at me.

I murmured, "Check the color, smell for the sour edge."

He repeated it word for word, and the comments were already praising how gifted the young heir was.

Dad's face was flushed with pride.

"My boy's had a knack for this since he was little. Most things he only has to see once."

Adrian Whitney, there to buy wine, frowned.

"All these years it's been Sabby blending my wine. When has Jason ever set foot in the cellar?"

Dad jumped in at once. "Sabby just lends a hand out back. The recipes are Jason's own work."

After the livestream ended, he shoved my eight years of fermentation logs into Jason's hands.

"The college startup program needs these. Your brother gets them first."

I pressed my palm flat on the notebook.

"Can my name go on the application?"

Mom was peeling grapes for Jason. Her face went cold.

"You didn't even finish grade school. You want people laughing at us?"

"And why didn't I finish?"

Her fingers paused.

"Back then the family could only afford one. Jason had the grades. We weren't going to hold both of you back."

"So you sent me off to put my brother through."

Dad's hand cracked down on the table.

"Putting your brother through was for this family too! Dragging up old scores now, for whose benefit?"

Jason tugged at my sleeve.

"Sis, you make the wine, I get the word out. Neither of us loses anything."

I asked, "And if something's wrong with the wine, who answers for it?"

He smiled. "You're this good. How could anything go wrong?"

Mom pushed the logbook into his arms.

"Focus on school. Your sister's got the back."

Then she brought out the customer roster I'd spent four years compiling. Who liked it sweet, whose wedding banquet had to steer clear of osmanthus, which elder could only drink the light stuff—I'd written it all down, clear as day.

Jason flipped through a couple of pages.

"Sis, all these words. How am I supposed to remember them?"

Mom said with a smile, "Doesn't matter if you can't. You just handle the deals up front and let your sister keep track behind you."

I asked, "Then what does that make me?"

Dad was wiping down the new sign, his tone offhand.

"You're his sister. Since when does helping him need a title?"

That night I wrote back to Susan Abbott.

"Mentor Ellison, is that spot still open?"

"Still here. Come and you can catch up on the coursework. There's a wage, and days off too."

With the money I'd saved delivering wine to the next town over, I bought a ticket for three days out.

When Mom pushed the door open, I'd just tucked my ID into my bag.

She didn't see it. She only threw a stack of forms onto the table.

"The cultural affairs office comes tomorrow to do the first review of Jason's heir status. Fill out the paperwork."

The name field on the first page already read Jason Winslow.