When I was fourteen, my mother knelt before me.

"Niannian, you are the eldest daughter. You have to step up."

I stepped up.

Frying dough sticks before dawn, waiting tables after school, my fingers cracked and bleeding in the winter cold, enduring forty-degree summer heat with no air conditioning.

Every single penny I earned was handed over to the family.

At twenty-six, on the third day after my father's funeral.

My mother slid an agreement across the table: the house goes to your sisters; you move out.

"Who asked you to work so hard? You did it willingly."

While packing up my father's belongings, I found a voice recorder.

From it came my father's frail voice:

"Niannian, the debt was paid off three years ago. The house and the savings... Dad is leaving them all to you."

Twelve years. 437,600 yuan.

It turns out the people I had been supporting all along never once treated me as family.

This time, I am going to settle the score.