The man’s laughter echoed as he pulled me close, saying, “Let’s get along, okay?” I closed my eyes, holding back tears as I watched my mother walk out of the room. Ever since I was little, my mother’s love had always been directed toward my older brother. He was the good one, I was the bad one. He got praised, I got scolded. That was my everyday reality. My father, seeing how I suffered, often took me out for walks. He gave me piggyback rides, bought me sweets. He was kind, and I loved him deeply. But suddenly, without warning, he disappeared from our lives. After that, my mother began constantly berating him in front of us. “He was the worst,” “It’s better that he’s gone,” “We’re happier now.” She repeated it like a curse, forcing herself and us to believe it. As our financial situation worsened, she told me it was “for the family” that I had to sell my body. When I asked what my brother would do, I was scolded for even questioning—told he “didn’t need to.” I hated it. It was unbearable. Having strange men lick and touch my body—where was the happiness in this? Why me? I cried endlessly. But I was weak. This was the only place I belonged. I convinced myself this was my role. “Don’t you have any dreams?” the man asked, running his hands over my body. If even wishing is forbidden, then I don’t want dreams. Family bonds crushed an innocent heart. This is the tragic story of a helpless girl.