The Daughter They Starved to Death Came Back a Billionaire

"And what about you? You've barely been here a few days and you're already covered in blisters and fainting left and right. You can't handle even a little hardship!"

It wasn't until I died in my previous life that I realized this was my mother's way of goading me.

Desiree had never sent any medicine. Not once. Even when I wrote letter after letter begging for it, she ignored every single one.

Because before my mother left, she had given Desiree careful instructions: any letters from the frontier could be ignored entirely. All Desiree needed to do was focus on her studies. Her little sister would take care of everything.

They had a silent understanding. I was their blood bank.

A stepping stone on Desiree Sullivan's path to greatness.

My father stood to the side and didn't say a word in my defense.

Only when my mother was heading out the door did he press half a piece of cornbread into my hand.

"Your mother's a teacher. She's always been strict. Don't hold it against her."

After I finished that half piece of cornbread, there was nothing left to eat in the house.

So I picked up the hoe, blood running down my palms, teeth clenched, and dug. One swing after another, carving out enough food to keep the three of us alive.

Six months later, just when I thought my parents had finally adjusted to life out here and could share some of the burden, my father fell from the roof beam.

The doctor said he'd fractured a bone and needed bed rest. Someone had to stay by his side at all times.

Nobody consulted me about who that someone would be. The job went to my mother.

I had no grounds to argue. All I could do was grit my teeth and keep going.

During the day, I turned soil, dug irrigation ditches, and piled compost. At night, I cooked, washed dishes, and cleaned the house.

Thirteen years of breaking new ground.

Thirteen years of hacking at hardened earth. Thirteen years of digging ditches. Thirteen years of doing the work of two grown adults.

So when the photographer pointed at my mother and asked if she was my younger sister, my brain short-circuited for a few seconds. Fury blazed through me, but then I turned and caught my own reflection in the mirror.

Skin dark and dull, rough as sandpaper.

A gaunt frame, hollow cheeks, not an ounce of flesh to spare.

Clothes washed so many times they'd gone white, pants patched over and over in layers.

Standing next to Desiree, I looked like I belonged to a different century.

She wore her hair in twin braids, dressed in the trendiest plaid shirt, cradling a roll of blueprints from the design institute. An educated, cultured professional.

I had my hair cropped short to my ears for easy washing and easier work. I wore a rough cotton tunic bleached pale and patched beyond counting. In my hand dangled a bag of greens and pork for tonight's dinner. A weathered farmhand, nothing more.

Desiree let out a soft laugh.

"Oh, you're too funny. That's my mother over there, and this is my little sister."

The photographer's look of disbelief hit me like a slap across the face.

Hard enough to split skin.

By the time I swallowed my humiliation and walked out of the photo studio, my mother and Desiree were already gone.

I went home and made dinner. The two of them finally came back, arms loaded with shopping bags.

Desiree was wearing something new: a sky-blue polyester blouse trimmed with lace. Under the warm glow of the lamp, it shimmered, and the sight of it stung my eyes.

My mother said, "Your sister has fair skin. Blue looks good on her. You're too thin and small. There was nothing in the store that fit you."

My father said, "Desiree spent all those years living under someone else's roof. It wasn't easy for her. You're her little sister. You should let her have things."

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Tears nearly spilled over.

Thirteen years of backbreaking labor, and I couldn't even earn myself a single blouse?

The very next day, my fiancé Egbert came to see me. The moment he laid eyes on me, shock flooded his face, and every trace of the warmth he'd once shown me vanished.

When he emerged from my father's study, his expression was a mix of guilt and distance.

"Letitia, let's call off the engagement. I know I'm the one in the wrong."

"Desiree is a college graduate. We have things in common, we see the world the same way. I'd only be happy with her."

"Don't blame her. You can't force these things."

I laughed when he finished. Laughed until the tears came.