In this lean year when even a starving mouse could not dig out half a grain of rice, they sold me to a butcher in the next village who had lost two of his wives in exchange for a bag of brown rice for my precious brother.
On the day of the transaction, while putting the rice in exchange for money into a cloth bag, my mother pretended to wipe her tears: "Yi'er, don't blame us, you are a loser who can't go to the ground." My brother was on the side, staring at the bag of rice like a thief, for fear that I would rush to grab it.
They thought that I, a midwife who played with herbs and babies all year round, was just a soft persimmon who could be exploited.
They don't know how steady and ruthless they are in fighting against the Lord of Hell all the year round.
Later, when my parents and brother, who were so hungry that their eyes were green, came all the way to kneel under my city gate and begged me, a "loser," for some food, I laughed.
I told them that I have an iron rule in my "Women's Valley": if you want to eat, you can.
Men work twice as hard in exchange for the same food as women.
