After Rebirth, I Outplayed My Manipulative Older Sister Chapter 11

After Rebirth, I Outplayed My Manipulative Older Sister Chapter 11

I gave my dad two hundred thousand. 

He gave it to Georgia. 

That money was enough to cover her mortgage 

payments for half a year and her daughter’s tuition. 

for a year. 

But that was it. 

Later, she took up a job selling insurance. 

The basic salary was low, with no meals or 

accommodation included. 

She went door to door in small towns, stood up 

countless times only to be stood up, and was event 

called a fraud straight to her face by clients. 

One day, she fell asleep on a plastic seat in the 

bus station while waiting for a ride back to town. 

When she woke up, her bag had been sliced open. 

Her wallet and phone were both gone.. 

She borrowed a phone from a cleaning lady. 

working at the station to call Dad. He rode a coach 

bus for two hours just to pick her up. 

He found her squatting alone on the concrete 

steps outside the station. 

The day the bank seized her old house, she moved. 

into a hundred–and–thirty–square–foot single room 

in the shabby downtown district with her 

daughter. 

Street food stalls lined the nearby streets, and 

cooking fumes drifted in through every crack in 

the windows, leaving her bedding permanently. 

reeking of grilled snacks. 

Shared restrooms stood at the end of the corridor. 

The open squat toilets constantly leaked water, 

leaving the floor flooded with filthy water that 

reached over people’s shoe soles. 

Every night, her daughter finished schoolwork. 

leaning over the edge of the bed, relying solely on 

the motion–sensor light in the hallway. 

When the light went out, the little girl would cough. 

softly to turn it back on, then continue writing at 

few more lines. 

Soon after, Dad told me her daughter had fallen seriously ill. 

He could not name the exact condition clearly, only saying she needed extremely expensive medicine that medical insurance would not cover. 

To scrape together the medical bills, she handed out flyers by day and washed dishes at night market stalls after dark. 

She slept no more than four hours each day. 

“Did you help her out?” I asked. 

Dad stayed silent on the line for a very long time. “I sold the old house.” 

I said nothing. 

“Cora,” his voice sounded rough and worn, “I have wronged you, and I have wronged your mother too. But that child… she never did anything wrong.” 

I told him I understood. 

Then I ended the call. 

Three months later, Dad sent me a photo via 

message. It was a funeral service receipt. 

The name written on it was Ada Dalhy, aged 

thirteen. 

The cause of death was infective endocarditis, a 

complication brought on by long–term malnutrition. and weakened immunity. 

Without funds to transfer hospitals or buy imported medication, a simple cold developed into myocarditis, which gradually worsened into. heart failure. 

The hospital suggested surgery as the final solution, which cost six hundred thousand dollars. 

Georgia begged the attending physician, pleading with everything she had until she had no tears left 

to cry. 

All her pleas were in vain. 

During her daughter’s final days, the little girl lay on a creaky folding bed in that cramped room, her lips turning purple and her hands growing cold. 

and limp. 

Georgia did not shed a single tear. 

She had long forgotten how to cry. 

She simply held her daughter’s hand, sat 

motionless on the bedside, and stayed up all night 

listening to the roaring noise of range hoods from 

nearby food stalls. 

Around five o’clock in the early morning, the little. 

girl’s hands turned completely cold. 

I heard from an old neighbor that on the day of the 

child’s burial, Georgia stood all alone in the 

quietest corner of the cemetery before two. 

graves. 

One belonged to her mother, and the other to her 

own daughter. 

Twenty–three years separated them, two 

generations trapped in the same tragic cycle. 

The faint habitual curve still lingered at the 

corners of her mouth. 

That fixed expression had become carved deep 

into her skin like an old scar. 

She could never get rid of it. 

She had spent her whole life relying on that gentle 

look to win others‘ sympathy, yet now there was no one left beside her. 

Not a single person remained to witness her 

sorrows. 

That winter was unusually bitter. 

Several water pipes in the shabby neighborhood froze and burst. She slipped on icy fragments. while fetching water at the communal washhouse. 

and fractured her coccyx. 

No one took her to seek medical treatment. 

She lay in bed for three whole weeks, barely surviving on bread occasionally brought over by 

kind neighbors. 

Dad had already sold everything he owned and 

given her his last sum of money. 

He had nothing left to offer anymore. 

When spring came, people claimed they had 

spotted her sitting on a cardboard mat beside an 

overpass near the old district, with a bowl placed 

in front of her. 

Her hair had turned gray prematurely, and deep nasolabial folds lined her face. 

Some recognized her as the bright smiling young 

woman who once graced the front page of the Eastwood University campus newspaper. 

Most passers–by merely hurried past, dropping loose change into her bowl now and then. 

I didn’t know whether those rumors were true. 

And I had no desire to find out.