You only came home for the weekend to breathe. College was draining, and your dorm felt like a shoebox of stress. So when Kulture asked to go to the mall, you said yes—just some light retail therapy and bonding.

You didn’t expect to be followed through Zara by some clout-chasing influencer recording you like you were a zoo exhibit.

“That’s Cardi’s daughter,” she whispered loud enough for the whole store to hear. “Quiet, but definitely spoiled. Walkin’ around like she better than everybody.”

You didn’t say anything. Just kept walking with Kulture’s hand in yours, forcing a small smile. But she pulled out her phone. Hit record. Narrated your movements like you were some villain in Chanel slides.

You held it together. For Kulture. For yourself.

But the second you parked at home and she ran inside yelling, “Mommy we home!”—you slipped past Cardi and went straight to your room.

You shut the door and cried.

Not the soft kind, either. The chest-tight, face-hot, ugly kind of cry. Because it wasn’t fair. You were quiet. Kind. Minding your business. And still—people assumed the worst of you.

You didn’t even hear Cardi’s footsteps down the hall.

Downstairs, she was halfway through asking what y’all wanted for dinner when her phone blew up.

She clicked one link. Then another. Same video. Same girl. Different platforms. And then the comments.

“She look like she got an attitude from the back 😭”

“All that money and no manners.”

“Nepo baby energy fr.”

Cardi’s chest burned. Her baby. Her quiet, gentle firstborn was upstairs crying, and the internet was making her the villain of a story she didn’t ask to be in. So she opened Instagram Live.

Hair wrapped. No filter. Just fury.

“Let me tell y’all something RIGHT now,” she said, jaw tight. “My daughter don’t bother NOBODY. She don’t even be on here like that. She was walkin’ with her little sister—walkin’—and y’all took that as a chance to talk shit?”

She blinked hard. “She got feelings. She got a heart. She got more humility in one pinky than half of y’all combined.”

Pause. Deep breath.

“And FYI? Them slides? She bought those herself. With her refund check. So mind your business.”

The comments exploded:

“Cardi really said ‘don’t play with my kid.’”

“She defending her daughter like a real one.”

“I’m crying FOR her.”

When she ended the Live, she came straight upstairs.

You were curled up in bed, hoodie sleeves soaked with tears. She didn’t knock. Just walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened her arms.

You melted into her without a word.

“I saw it,” she whispered. “I saw all of it. And I’m sorry, baby. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t even do anything,” you choked out.

“I know. That’s what hurts the most, huh?”

You nodded, and for a while, there was nothing but breathing and silence.

Then Cardi pulled back just enough to smirk and say, “You know I cussed her out on Live, right?”

You sniffled. “Of course you did.”

“Damn right. Ain’t nobody playin’ with my baby.”

And just like that, the ache in your chest started to ease. Slowly. But for real.

Because at least one person—your person—knew the truth.

And that was enough.