Chapter 196: Exposure
"Put down the rag. Starting today, you don't need to mop the floors or do laundry anymore. Head down to the basement to work," said the foster mom to Debbie after Fiona and the others had left.
In this house, if you wanted to eat, you had to work. No work, no food. And it wasn't just food—everything, even toilet paper, had to be earned through labor.
Debbie was at an age when her appetite was big. As the saying goes, a half-grown child can eat a poor man out of house and home—and Debbie was exactly that age. But the work she was doing wasn't nearly enough to earn the food she needed. Constantly hungry, her complexion grew worse by the day.
Up to this point, Debbie had only done chores like mopping or washing clothes upstairs. This was the first time the foster mom took her down to the basement.
When Debbie entered the basement, she saw rows of tables, each dimly lit by a single bulb. Dozens of children around her age were hunched over, assembling handmade crafts.
There were at least a dozen kids working in this underground sweatshop.
Debbie glanced around. The environment was terrible. Dust floated visibly in the dim light. Mold crept along the walls and ceiling. Rat droppings littered the floor, and traps were scattered everywhere.
"That's your spot. Sit down and get to work," the foster mom ordered, pointing to an empty seat.
"You can use my glue," said a chubby girl sitting across from her.
"She's making us create jewelry?" Debbie whispered in disbelief.
"It's not exactly forced, but if you don't work, you don't eat. There's a price list on the wall," the chubby girl replied quietly.
On the wall was a clearly marked exchange chart:
– One bracelet = one hamburger
– Four pairs of earrings = one pack of fries
– Drinks, chicken nuggets, and more were also listed, all fast food items with different "prices."
"This has to be illegal," Debbie muttered.
"It used to be just a few of us, but once Mama Kamala started labeling everything 'Made in Africa,' business really picked up. More and more kids got pulled in," the girl whispered.
"Work quietly. No chatting. No work, no food. Got it?" the foster mom warned, then turned and went back upstairs.
Debbie had never done this kind of work before. After the entire morning, she only managed to make two pairs of earrings—earning just two meal tickets.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" Debbie asked.
The foster mom handed her a ticket, tore off a few squares of toilet paper, and gave them to her.
While the foster mom was busy collecting the day's output, Debbie dashed to the door—but it was locked. She tried other doors and windows too, but everything was either locked or welded shut. There was no escape.
"You think you can run? Mama Kamala sees everything," the foster mom sneered, catching Debbie at the door and dragging her back into the basement.
These shady, exploitative foster homes were designed to prevent escape. Mama Kamala was experienced. She had reinforced the house like a fortress. Without her keys, no one was getting out.
"If you want to end this hell sooner, then tell your bitch sister to hurry up and bring me the money next time she comes," she growled, tossing Debbie back to her seat.
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Meanwhile, Fiona had reported the foster mom's demand for money to the Department of Family Services.
They contacted the social worker assigned to the case, asking if it was true.
But whether Mama Kamala was too good at covering her tracks or had already colluded with the social worker, the answer came back the same: There's no such problem. In fact, the social worker claimed that Kamala was a "model foster parent."
Naturally, the department trusted its own people over Fiona and dismissed her with a few vague reassurances.
Frustrated, Fiona returned in the afternoon to plead again. But Kamala wouldn't budge—$5,000, not a cent less.
Fiona managed to speak with Debbie briefly, who quietly revealed what was happening in the basement. Fiona was heartbroken.
No matter how poor they'd been, Fiona had never let her siblings go hungry. No matter how tired she was, she always got up early to cook them breakfast.
But now she had no options. She returned to Sheila's house, where everyone gathered to brainstorm a solution.
"Her house is reinforced. There's no way to sneak in. I checked—the police patrol that area frequently. It's a tough nut to crack," said Lip.
"Maybe we should just pay her. Use the money Dad left," Fiona suggested reluctantly. She couldn't stand the thought of Debbie suffering any longer.
"No. We can't give in," Karen, who had been listening quietly the whole time, finally spoke up. "We can't let her get away with this."
"Then what's your plan?" Fiona asked.
"Expose her." Karen took off her glasses. There was a cold gleam in her eyes. She wasn't the same Karen from before.
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The next day, Sheila and the others showed up at Mama Kamala's house.
"Today, we're exposing a child labor sweatshop," Sheila said to her phone, livestreaming the entire thing.
Fiona stepped up and knocked on the door. Kamala opened it just a crack.
"You got the money?" she asked.
But before she could finish the sentence, Lip and Ian shouted, "One, two!" and charged the door.
The door, slightly ajar, was knocked open instantly. Everyone rushed inside.
"What are you doing?! This is trespassing! I'm calling the police!" Kamala shrieked, falling to the floor and grabbing her phone.
"Go ahead. We're calling the police too," Fiona shot back.
"Everyone, take a look—these kids are starving and being forced to work," Sheila narrated to the livestream, filming every corner of the house, including the basement.
The police arrived quickly and took everyone to the station for questioning.
And not just the police—the media showed up too, filming the conditions inside Kamala's house.
After the statements were recorded, everyone was released. When they got home, officials from the Department of Family Services came to apologize in person.
Why? Because Sheila, now a social media influencer with hundreds of thousands of followers, had streamed the entire ordeal. The internet exploded with outrage.
Karen, acting as Sheila's manager, had also been building her media connections. Since Sheila overcame her anxiety, she'd started appearing at public events—giving Karen opportunities to network. The reporters who showed up? All Karen's contacts.
The scandal sent shockwaves through the internet.
"How are you doing your jobs?"
"So many innocent kids sent into sweatshops—are you aiding and abetting child abuse?"
The Department of Family Services also found itself at the center of a firestorm.
(End of Chapter)
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