When my half-sister Ava asked me to photograph her wedding for free, I hesitated. I didn’t want to do it, but somehow I said yes. I thought it would be a chance to help, to finally make a connection with her. What I didn’t expect was to be treated like I wasn’t even family. I was just three years old when my dad walked out on us. I don’t remember much about that day, just the image of my mom crying and his suitcase half-packed by the door. The memory

Every evening after work, I did the same thing. I walked past the boutique on Main Street. I didn’t stop on purpose. My feet just slowed down, like they were moving through honey. There was something about those dresses behind the glass. They stood so still—perfect, expensive, glowing under soft lights. They looked like they belonged to queens. And I looked like someone who didn’t belong at all. The mannequins wore gowns like royalty. I wore a black work polo and a faded name tag from the food mart. Sometimes,

It was our first wedding anniversary, and Grant had done everything right. He made sure it was a night to remember. Reservations were set at a rooftop restaurant downtown. Soft candlelight flickered, string lights twinkled in the evening breeze, and a violinist played soothing melodies that swirled between the courses. I had curled my hair, hoping to feel special again, and Grant had brought me a bouquet of flowers, wrapped in delicate paper. For the first time in months, we sat at the same table without the distraction of phones