Gossiped into Riches:Every rumor makes me $10

​David came home with a torn backpack and empty hands. ​He's ten years old, my little brother, and he hadn't eaten a single bite since yesterday morning. He stood frozen in the doorway of our tiny apartment in downtown Chicago, his head hanging low, his worn-out sneakers covered in heavy gray dust from walking miles across the city. The cheap shoulder strap on his school bag was completely shredded, dangling by a single thread. ​"What happened to you?" I asked, dropping my dishtowel and rushing over to him. ​He didn't answer at first. He just dropped his heavy bag onto the scuffed floorboards, walked over to our saggy sofa, and pulled his knees tight against his chest. His little shoulders were trembling uncontrollably. ​Finally, without looking up, he whispered, "I went to Dad's shop." ​My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless pit. ​Three months ago, our parents were killed in a horrific car crash on Interstate 90. A heavy semi-truck lost control on the rain-slicked highway, and an emergency police call at 11:42 p.m. shattered our entire world in a single second. My mother was a dedicated ER nurse at the city hospital. My father owned a small, hardworking building supply store downtown—selling cement, nails, lumber, and paint. It wasn't a corporate empire, but it was ours. It paid our rent, covered our groceries, paid for school supplies, and kept us safe. ​When Dad died, his younger brother, Uncle Sammy, showed up at our apartment wearing a sharp suit and holding a stack of legal papers. He hugged me, wiped away fake tears, and declared in front of our grieving relatives, "Anna is only seventeen and still in high school. Let me manage the building supply store for her until she turns eighteen." ​Everyone believed him. My aunts nodded in agreement, praising him for being responsible. For the first month, Sammy even dropped off two hundred dollars for our food. I thanked him like he was a saint sent straight from heaven. ​Then the money stopped completely. He stopped answering my calls. "Busy at the warehouse. Talk later," he would send in brief, cold text messages. Whenever I dragged myself to the store in my high school uniform after class, he always had a complaint ready: "Business is dead, Anna. Overhead costs are killing us. Rent is sky-high. There's zero profit." ​I wanted to believe him. I desperately needed to believe that someone in our family was looking out for us. ​Until today. ​David explained that he was so dizzy with hunger on his way home from elementary school that he decided to take a detour to Dad's shop. He just wanted to ask Uncle Sammy for twenty dollars to buy a warm sandwich and a carton of milk. He genuinely thought, That’s my dad’s business. My uncle is in charge. He loves us. He will help. ​Uncle Sammy didn't just say no. He stood up from my father's old leather chair, pointed a finger at my ten-year-old brother, and screamed at him in front of wealthy contractors and store workers. He chased David out onto the busy sidewalk like a stray dog, shouting that he never wanted to see his face near the building again. ​And to make it worse, he called my little brother a thief in front of everyone. He shouted for the whole street to hear that David was trying to steal cash straight out of the family register. ​David had walked four miles back home in the sweltering heat, weeping only after he was safely locked inside our apartment. ​That same evening, I dialed every family member in my phone contacts. I called Aunt Grace, Aunt Linda, and Uncle Robert. I begged them to intervene. I cried as I told them how Sammy had publicly humiliated a defenseless ten-year-old boy whose parents weren't even cold in their graves. ​They all took Sammy's side without hesitation. ​"Sammy is doing the best he can under extreme stress, Anna." "David had no business going to a commercial business site alone." "You're just a teenage girl—stop creating drama and focus on your high school diploma." ​I hung up the phone, staring at the peeling wallpaper. It was just me and David now. My real name is Annabel, but everyone calls me Anna. I'm seventeen years old. ​There were supposed to be three of us here. Joy, our seven-year-old sister with curly pigtails and a missing front tooth, was taken by Grandma right after the funeral because I couldn't afford to feed her. Every single night, Joy calls and asks, "Anna, when are you coming to get me? I miss my bed." I swallowed my tears and lie, "Soon, baby. Very soon." ​That night, after Sammy chased David away, David and I split our very last cup of salted white rice. Watching my little brother try to sleep on a hungry stomach on our thin floor mattress, something inside my chest hardened into absolute steel. I was done begging those people. ​The next morning, I walked straight into West Bridge High and asked Principal Thompson for an official withdrawal form. ​"Annabel, you're an honor student with a college scholarship future," he urged, looking over his glasses. ​"I have to drop out today," I said quietly. "I need to work full-time to feed my brother and pay his school fees. No one else will do it." Seeing the fierce resolve in my eyes, he signed the paper with a shaking hand. ​So here I am. Seventeen years old. Orphaned. Baby sister gone. Brother depends on me for survival. My inheritance was stolen by my own blood relative. ​At 10:00 p.m. sharp, I pushed open the greasy glass doors of the greasy 24-hour diner downtown to start my very first late-night shift. As I tied a stained apron around my waist, the night manager smirked and pointed toward a sink stacked high with dirty dishes. ​I took a deep breath, pulled up my sleeves, and swore to myself that I would do whatever it took to survive.