When my half-sister Ava asked me to photograph her wedding for free, I reluctantly agreed. I showed up early, worked nonstop, and didn’t even ask for thanks. But when she told me I didn’t deserve a seat to eat, I decided I was done.
I was three years old when my dad walked out on us. I don’t remember much about that day except my mom’s tears and a half-packed suitcase by the door. What I do remember is the phone call a year later announcing that he and his new wife Lorraine, were expecting a baby.
My half-sister, Ava.
A baby girl | Source: Pexels
“Madison, sweetie,” he’d said during one of his sporadic visits when I was seven. “You’re a big sister now. Isn’t that exciting?”
I nodded because that’s what he wanted to see.
But the truth was, Ava might as well have been a character in a book. Someone who existed only in stories my dad occasionally told. We never visited each other’s houses. Never celebrated birthdays together. Never built the sisterly bond that Dad pretended we had whenever guilt crept into his voice.
A little girl | Source: Pexels
“Your sister is learning to ride a bike,” he’d say. Or, “Ava got the lead in her school play.” Always Ava this, Ava that. A phantom sister who apparently excelled at everything while barely acknowledging my existence.
Dad tried. I’ll give him that.
He showed up for my high school graduation and sent birthday cards with increasingly generic messages as the years passed. But we were never close.
How could we be when he had his “real” family waiting at home?
A man in a house | Source: Midjourney
With time, photography became my escape.
While other kids were hanging out at the mall, I was saving up for my first DSLR camera. I loved capturing moments that told stories.
After college, I built a solid reputation shooting for commercial clients. Sleek product shots, corporate headshots, industrial installations… that was my bread and butter. I rarely did weddings because there was too much drama and too many emotions.
But I was good at them when I did.
A camera | Source: Pexels
“Madison?” My phone rang one afternoon while I was editing a shoot for a local restaurant chain.
“Dad?” I answered, surprised. We hadn’t spoken in months.
“Hey, sweetie. How’s my favorite photographer doing?” His voice had that forced cheerfulness that always preceded a request.
“I’m good. Busy. What’s up?” I leaned back in my chair, already bracing myself.
“Well, I have some news. Your sister Ava is getting married next month.”
“Oh.” I paused. “That’s nice. Congratulations to her.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass that along.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, I was wondering… she’s trying to cut some costs on the wedding, and when I mentioned you’re a professional photographer, she seemed interested.”
I almost laughed.
“Interested? Dad, Ava has never even spoken to me. We’ve been in the same room maybe three times in our entire lives.”
“I know, I know. But this could be a chance for you two to connect. She’s family, Madison.”
“You want me to shoot her wedding? For free?”
“It would mean a lot to her. To me too.”
I should have said no. Every professional instinct screamed at me to decline. But some small, stupid part of me (the part that still wanted my father’s approval) couldn’t form the word.
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