I didn't find out I was the real daughter who'd been switched at birth until I was eighteen. The day I was brought back to my family, the fake daughter, who was in poor health, was admitted to the ICU. Mom slapped me: “Why did you have to come back now? Didn't you know she can't handle the shock?” My brother grabbed me by the throat, his eyes bloodshot. “If anything happens to her, I'll make you pay with your life.”
Then one day, they suddenly changed. Mom started making soup for me herself, Dad asked if I had enough pocket money, and my brother even gave me a limited-edition Labubu doll for my birthday. I fell asleep clutching it, overwhelmed by their affection, thinking my hard times were finally over.
Then, seven days later, a sudden pain seized my heart and I collapsed. As my consciousness faded, I saw another “me” standing at my bedside, grinning smugly.
“Big sister, I'll take your body now. Thanks for dying in my place.”
It turned out everything they'd done was just to steal my body for the fake daughter.
