"I’ve met plenty like her. Holding a little family cash, all they do is buy purses, sip tea, and hook men. Unlike me, I opened a store by my own hands at twenty."
She let out a dramatic sigh. "Shame, no matter how that old lady jumps around, she’s just like that. Her man must be tired of her already."
"Next round, I’ll stream something even better. Watch how I deal with these gold-digging pests."
The clip stopped.
So angry, I let out a laugh.
Faye Stewart.
That title, I named her with my own mouth.
Five years earlier, during a village support check in the hills, I found her inside a cracked mud room.
The sixteen-year-old child curled on a straw sheet, skin marked with wounds.
Her face was pale and thin, her eyes showing low self-worth and hopelessness.
Back then, she was called Hope, meaning to bring a younger boy into the home.
She held tight to my sleeve and said, "Older sister, I want to study."
I took her to Phoenix, changed her name to Faye, meaning full moon and plenty.
Sent her to the top art college, and I personally cut the ribbon for her tattoo store after graduation.
Now she used the craft I paid for to carve five shameful words across my chest, just to mock me online.