“Oh my god, this is called a woman, this is a walking tumor!”
“That's right, isn't it harmful for this kind of person to live in this world?”
Public opinion fermented quickly and my photo, in an instant, on the whole network hot search!
Before I knew it, hashtags like “Leeching Cousin,” “Poisonous Relative,” and “Public Transport” (a disgusting label implying I was ‘used by everyone’) flooded the internet.
As the live streams spread, the people surrounding me grew more hostile. The emotions of the onlookers were also pushed up and they couldn't help but start throwing eggs and rotten vegetable leaves at me. Some of those who were eating nearby even directly smashed the beer bottles in their hands in front of me.
As if I were a lamb to the slaughter, I stood in a pile of garbage and was subjected to a lot of verbal abuse.
And then, through the jeering crowd, a familiar face appeared—my husband, Daniel Summers.
Seeing him, my heart swelled with hope. Daniel had been my rock for years, always there to support and soothe me when I hurt. He was my refuge, my safe harbour. I stumbled towards him, desperate to fall into his arms and find solace. But just as I reached him, he pushed me away—hard.