Morning sunlight had barely touched the cracked windows when shouting shook the apartment. Amina rushed out of the bedroom to find her father waving a newspaper, face twisted with excitement.
"They're writing about us!" he slurred, the bitter scent of gin heavy in the air. "My daughter, the star!"
Zainab peeked out from the corner, worry clouding her young face.
Amina snatched the paper from his hands.
Her photo sprawled across the front page — an unflattering shot from the contest stage, sweat glistening on her brow, mouth half open mid-note.
The headline screamed:
"From Slum to Spotlight: Will the Diner Girl Survive?"
The article dug into her past. They named her school dropout status, hinted at poverty, even mentioned her father's drinking. Shame crawled under her skin.
"Where did they get this?" she whispered, heart pounding.
Her father grinned, eyes glassy. "I told them! They paid good money for the truth. That's my investment in you, eh? Don't forget who raised you."
Her stomach dropped. He sold my pain.
Her mother's voice cut through the room, trembling but fierce: "Out. Now."
He barked a laugh, staggering towards the door. "Ungrateful brats. You'll thank me when you're rich."
The silence echoed like a gunshot.
Amina's hands shook as she folded the paper. "Mama... what if they only ever see me like this? A poor girl pretending to sing?"
Her mother's hands covered hers, fragile yet warm. "You are not what they write. You are what you choose to become."
But outside, cameras were already gathering. Strangers pointed, whispered, snapped photos. By nightfall, hashtags of her name were trending, mixed with cruel jokes and hopeful fans alike.
That evening, Vanessa's team posted a glossy photo of her in a designer dress, captioned:
"Some of us earn our place. Others just chase pity."
Amina read it once, twice, untill her vision blurred.
She closed the screen. Her heart was breaking, but her jaw was set.
If they wanted her to crumble, they'd have to work harder..