We live in a world of appearances. My parents’ house is an HOA masterpiece, the lawn trimmed to the millimeter. My mother has never worked a paid day in her life, yet she is busier than a CEO managing the “family reputation.” Then there is Megan, three years younger, the Golden Child. She married Derek, a partner at Whitmore & Associates, and produced two beautiful, high-maintenance grandchildren: Oliver (5) and Sophie (3).

And then there is me. Wendy. The part-time accountant. The one who drives a ten-year-old Honda Civic. The one who parks in the street so Derek’s Lexus can have the driveway.

I had accepted this role. I cooked the Thanksgiving turkeys. I organized the birthday parties. I did Derek’s taxes for free. I was the “World’s Best Aunt,” a title bestowed upon me via a glittery apron Megan gave me one Christmas—an apron I wore while she got manicures because she “needed a break.”

But they didn’t know everything about me.

Three years ago, my life imploded. My boyfriend of four years, Kevin, left me. His parting words were etched into my psyche: “I love you, Wendy, but I’m not in love with you. You’re just… there. Like furniture. Like wallpaper.”

Devastated, I wandered into a pawn shop and bought a used Canon DSLR camera for $180. It was an impulse buy, a desperate attempt to find something that was mine.