When I was 7, my mom and I took a photo on a disposable camera and she made a copy of it. Three or so years later, I used it to make her a Mother’s Day scrapbook. I made it with a few pictures I loved of her, except for the very first page, which was the picture of us. I remember putting so much love into that scrapbook and feeling so excited to give it to her. That photo meant so much to me. If I’m not mistaken, it was probably our first real selfie together.
Fast forward many years later, when I was about 23. She kicked me out over the most ridiculous thing. I was injured and couldn’t help around the house for a week. When I came back to collect my things, I noticed the scrapbook I made for her laying on the ground in my room, almost intentionally for me to see. Every photo was perfectly intact where younger me lovingly placed and decorated them, except for one photo. The only one of us.
My sister told me she ripped it into shreds in front of her. A piece of me faded that day. I’ll never understand why she did that, but the photo is gone forever, and she was perfectly okay with that before she ripped it up. She left every single photo of herself and chose our photo. I don’t understand why she does these things to me.