My in-laws ignored me for years—no photos, no invites, just fake smiles and cold shoulders. I married Jason, loyal to a fault… mostly to them. I cooked, smiled, showed up—still cropped out of memories like I never existed. “Don’t take it personally,” he’d say, as if it didn’t burn every time.
Then my grandmother died—my only real family. She left me a fortune. Suddenly, I was “darling” to Claudette, a “sister” to Ivy, and Grant had blueprints ready for a “family-funded” renovation. They didn’t want me. They wanted what I had.
At dinner, I smiled and said, “Of course—once you show me how many family photos I’m in.” The silence said it all. Jason couldn’t meet my eyes. The next morning, I fed my cat, poured my coffee, and filed for divorce without a tear.
He begged. I left. Took my art, my peace, and every piece of self-respect they tried to erase. Weeks later, alone by a quiet lake, I finally breathed. I no longer needed to be chosen. They erased me for years—now, I’ve made myself unforgettable.