I Found An Email Thread Where My Mother Called Me “Free Help.” They Went To Hawaii, So I Moved To California And Became A Professional Photographer. Now They Want A Cut Of My $8,400 Payday?

A New Life

By the time the gallery closed that night, I had sold eight of 15 photographs. Eight pieces. $14,000 in total sales. $8,400 would go to me—60%, just like the contract promised. Marcus handed me the printout of the evening’s transactions as the last guest filtered out.

“Not bad for an opening night. Especially one with unexpected family drama.”

I stared at the numbers. $8,400. More than I’d made in 3 months of part-time accounting work.

“Mrs. Payton wants to commission a piece,” Marcus continued. “She has a vacation home in Big Sur. Wants you to photograph the coastline. A commission. Private collectors often work that way. She liked your eye. She wants to see what you do with her landscape.” He handed me a business card. “Her assistant’s contact. Call them next week.”

I tucked the card carefully into my clutch, next to my copy of the gallery contract.

“And the magazine interview,” Marcus added. “Susan said she has enough material for a feature. They’re considering you for next month’s cover.”

Cover of an actual magazine. With my name and my face and my story.

Aunt Ruth helped me carry the unsold photographs back to my room above the cafe that night. Seven pieces still waiting for the right buyers. But seven was better than 15. Seven meant people had seen value in what I created. I set the check on my desk, the first check I’d ever received for my art, and photographed it. Not to post anywhere, just to remember. Payable to Wendy Dixon: $8,400. Proof. Physical proof that I wasn’t nothing. That I’d never been nothing at all.