Family is supposed to be forever. I believed that—until my sister Barbara shattered that belief.

Growing up, Barbara was the golden child—blonde, blue-eyed, our mother’s mirror image. I, Charlotte, was quieter, darker, always in her shadow. Still, I loved Mom deeply and didn’t resent the favoritism.

When Mom got sick, I was there—giving up promotions, weekends, everything—to care for her. Barbara? She was off chasing fame, always “too busy” to help.

She only returned when Mom passed—dressed for a red carpet, not a funeral. At the lawyer’s office, she pulled out a yellowed adoption paper. My name was on it.

With a smug smile, she said, “Guess now we know why you never looked like us.” Then she threatened to cut me out of the inheritance.

I asked for a DNA test. She laughed but agreed. The results stunned us both—I was our mother’s biological daughter. She was adopted.

Aunt Helen confirmed it. Mom found Barbara abandoned at a train station and took her in out of love. She never told us because we were both her daughters in her heart.

When I told Barbara the truth, she accused me of forgery. But the proof was undeniable. Mom’s will still gave us equal shares.

Barbara fought it in court—and lost.

I inherited the house, the money, and peace of mind. Barbara lost more than the case—she lost her family.

She tried to erase me. But in the end, she only erased herself.