My cousin always copies me—same car, same business. But at my birthday dinner, she showed up in a ballgown with cupcakes bearing her initials, then made an announcement:

“I’m launching my own brand—and it’s inspired by someone very special. Me.”

It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so calculated. My friends went quiet. My boyfriend looked confused. And I just sat there, staring at those damn cupcakes with “ZP” piped in gold frosting—Zahra Patel, my cousin. The same Zahra who got the exact same blue Mazda CX-30 as me six months after I bought mine. The same Zahra who quit her job at the bank to open an online store… two weeks after I launched mine.

I’m not being petty. I’m really not. It’s just that she never used to care about anything I was doing—until I started doing well.

My online store sells sustainable handmade home goods—vases, rugs, things like that. It took me years to build, working my way up from Etsy while juggling a job at a co-working space downtown. When I finally launched my full website, it felt like breathing for the first time in months. Orders started rolling in slowly, then steadily. By the time I hit my second year, I was actually making enough to quit the co-working gig.

Then Zahra started posting pottery on her Instagram. “Making time for my creative side,” she wrote. A month later: “Soft launch of ZP Living—handmade elegance for modern homes.” Her logo looked suspiciously like mine, just pink instead of green.

Still, I bit my tongue. Family’s family.

But her birthday stunt broke me. She gave a speech about being an “independent woman” and finding her “true calling” after “years of watching others live the dream.” People clapped. My mom actually teared up. I sat there smiling like an idiot while she passed out gift bags with her logo on them—at my birthday dinner.

That night, after everyone left, I went to the kitchen to clean up and found she’d left behind one of her branded candles. “ZP Serenity – Notes of Jasmine & White Tea.” I picked it up and laughed. She couldn’t even pour candles six months ago.

The next morning, my inbox had three messages from longtime customers asking if I’d “merged with ZP Living” or if I’d rebranded.

No. No, I had not.

I called her. “Zahra, what are you doing?”

“Promoting my business. You should be proud. I’m following in your footsteps!”

“No, you’re walking all over mine. Customers are getting confused.”

She sighed like I was being dramatic. “It’s not that deep, Mahira. There’s enough space for both of us.”

Easy for her to say. She still lived rent-free at her parents’ place. Meanwhile, I was fighting shipping delays and supplier issues like it was a full-time sport.

I tried to let it go. I really did. But two weeks later, she posted a photo shoot of her new rug collection—and I recognized two of the designs. Not similar. Identical. One of them had a tiny knot in the weave, which meant it was mine. She’d bought them from my site and reshot them to look like hers.

I saw red. I screenshotted the post and sent it to her.

She replied: “You don’t own patterns. Everyone copies everyone in this space. It’s just how it works.”

No apology. Not even a fake one.

I showed my boyfriend, Kiran. He’d always tried to stay neutral, but even he looked annoyed now. “She’s clearly banking on people thinking you’re the same brand. That’s shady.”

For the first time, I let myself consider something I never had before: calling her out.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I re-did my site layout, started putting my name everywhere, and even added a page about the origins of my designs. I had to do double the work just to make it clear I was the original.

Then came the art fair. It was a huge annual event in our city where vendors paid a hefty fee for a booth. I’d been on the waitlist for three years. This time, I finally got in. I was ecstatic.

Until I got an email two days later.

“Hi Mahira, just wanted to check—we noticed there are two vendors under similar business categories with overlapping branding. Could you confirm there’s no affiliation between your store and ZP Living?”

She’d applied too. And gotten in. And requested a booth next to mine.

I called her. I didn’t even bother with pleasantries.

“Move your booth.”

She laughed. “You don’t own a public event.”

I hung up.

By the time the fair rolled around, I was sick to my stomach. I spent the night before triple-checking every tag, every label, making sure my booth screamed authenticity. I even got a banner printed with a line that said: Founded in 2020. Woman-owned. Original designs.

The morning of the fair, I got there early. Set up my shelves, fluffed my rugs, lit one of my own candles.

An hour in, I noticed her. Strutting in with three friends, all in matching white shirts that said “ZP Crew.” She’d gone full influencer.

Her booth looked like a dupe of mine—same color palette, same product layout. She even had eucalyptus branches in a vase like mine.

But then something weird happened.

Customers started walking over, looking at her stuff, and whispering to each other. A few brows furrowed. One woman picked up a ZP candle, sniffed it, and made a face.

At noon, a gust of wind knocked over part of Zahra’s shelf. A ceramic bowl shattered. Her friend scrambled to clean it up, and I could hear Zahra snapping at her under her breath.

By 2 p.m., a couple approached me. The woman leaned in and said quietly, “You’re the original, right? We saw her booth first, but something felt off.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’ve been running this brand for four years now.”

She smiled. “We could tell. There’s heart in your stuff.”

I almost cried.

The rest of the day went better than I expected. My booth stayed busy. Zahra’s got traffic, but people didn’t linger. I overheard someone say, “Feels like an Instagram shop trying to be deep.”

When the fair wrapped up, I packed up slowly. Zahra was already gone.

Two days later, I got an email.

“Hi Mahira, I wanted to thank you again for being part of the fair. We had multiple attendees mention how genuine and thoughtful your work was. We’d love to feature you in our newsletter next month.”

I scrolled down. There was a P.S.

“We also received several complaints about ZP Living. We’re reviewing her eligibility for next year.”

I didn’t gloat. Not out loud. But inside? Yeah, I let myself feel it.

But the story doesn’t end there.

About three weeks later, I got a DM. From Zahra’s best friend, Aileen.

“Hey… I hope this isn’t weird, but can I ask you something privately?”

I said sure.

“She told people you gave her permission to use your designs. Is that true?”

I nearly dropped my phone.

“No. I never said that.”

Aileen replied, “Thought so. She’s been spinning that story a lot lately. Even told someone you were cousins ‘in name only’ and not close.”

That stung more than I expected.

Then Aileen said something that changed everything:

“She hired a freelance maker off Fiverr to ‘replicate’ your top-selling items. Paid them like $60. She said if people didn’t know the difference, it didn’t matter.”

That night, I made a decision.

I didn’t sue. I didn’t blast her online. I just posted one thing on my business account:

“Everything in this shop is designed by hand, made with love, and 100% original. We don’t follow trends—we start them.”

It got more engagement than anything I’d ever posted.

A few days later, Kiran and I were walking through the park when he nudged me.

“Did you see this?”

ZP Living had gone dark. No posts. No stories. The website was down.

I texted Aileen again, just out of curiosity.

“She shut it all down. Got called out in a local Facebook group for copying. Someone posted side-by-side images.”

“Did she say anything?” I asked.

Aileen just replied, “She said she was ‘misunderstood’ and that people always tear down women trying to make it.”

Classic.

A month after that, I got an unexpected knock at my door. Zahra. No cameras, no drama. Just her, in sweatpants, holding a container of homemade biryani.

“I messed up,” she said.

I didn’t invite her in right away. I just stood there.

“You built something real,” she said quietly. “I didn’t realize how much until I tried to fake it. I’m sorry.”

I believed her. Not because the words were perfect, but because she looked like someone who’d finally felt the difference between applause and authenticity.

We talked. Not long. But enough.

Now? We’re not best friends. But we’re family again. The kind that doesn’t copy, but shows up—with biryani, not branding.

And my business? Still growing. Slower than some, faster than others. But every sale feels earned.

Lesson?
Sometimes, people will try to wear your skin like a costume. They’ll mimic the steps but miss the soul. But you don’t need to compete with the copy. You just need to keep creating from the source.

And when you do—it always shows.

If this hit home, share it with someone who’s ever been copied, overlooked, or underestimated. Like & drop a 💚 if you know the real ones always rise.