Do you want to know when I realized the truth?
It hit me one random Tuesday evening while I was scrubbing my mother’s lacru pot after yet another family dinner. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had invited me somewhere without expecting me to work.
3 years ago, my life fell apart. I’d been dating a man named Kevin for 4 years. We talked about marriage, about kids, about a future. Then one evening, he sat me down and said the words I’ll never forget. I love you, Wendy, but I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore. You’re just there. You’re always just there. Always just there. Like furniture, like wallpaper.
After he left, I wandered into a pawn shop downtown. I don’t know why. Maybe I was looking for something to fill the hole. That’s when I saw it. A Canon DSLR camera. Used but well-maintained, tagged at $180. I bought it with money I should have saved. I told no one.
That camera became my secret.
I started photographing things most people ignore. Elderly women at bus stops. The tired faces of overnight janitors. The calloused hands of a street vendor. People who society looks right through. The same way my family looks right through me.
I called the series Invisible Women. I created an anonymous Instagram account. No face, no real name, just the photos. Over 3 years, I gathered 12,000 followers. People who saw what I saw, people who understood.
I kept the camera wrapped in an old cashmere scarf at the back of my closet. It was the only thing I ever kept for myself.
3 weeks before my parents’ anniversary party, I got an email that I almost deleted as spam. It was from a gallery in Monterey, California, Coastal Light Gallery, asking if I’d be interested in discussing my work. I stared at that email for 20 minutes before I realized my hands were shaking. But I didn’t reply. Not yet, because good things didn’t happen to people like me.
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