I was three when my father left. All I remember is my mother’s tears and the suitcase by the door. A year later, he called to say his new wife, Lorraine, was expecting a baby—my half-sister, Ava.

Growing up, Ava was more of an idea than a sister. We didn’t spend holidays or birthdays together. Our contact was limited to brief mentions during our father’s infrequent visits.

Photography was my escape. While others were shopping in malls, I was saving up for my first camera. Capturing the moment gave me meaning.

I built a career as a commercial photographer. I rarely shot weddings – too much emotion. But when I did, I gave it my all.

When my father called and said Ava was getting married, he asked me to do the photos for free. Despite my reservations, I agreed—on the condition that I bring my assistant, Jake, and that we would be treated like family.

On the day of the wedding, Ava handed me a shot list without even a word of introduction. We worked for six hours straight, without even a drink of water. When we got to the venue, there were no seats for us.

“We didn’t reserve plates for you. You’re working,” Ava said.

It was a turning point. I packed my gear and left.

“Hire a new photographer,” I said, leaving them without photos of the dance and cake cutting.

The next day I returned the unedited photos. When Ava called to complain, all I said was:

“You got what you paid for.”

And to my father, who came to apologize, I answered briefly: “Some family ties need to be cut.”