Gemotions

The opening night was supposed to be a celebration. For Maya, it was a slow-motion disaster. Her photographs, stark and intimate portraits of the homeless, hung in the gallery, but her name was nowhere to be seen. A prominent newspaper article credited the gallery owner for “discovering” the work. Her stomach churned.

She stood near the back, observing the scene. People moved through the gallery, their faces lit with polite interest. The gallery owner was holding court, regaling the attendees with tales of her “inspiration.” The blatant disregard for her contribution scraped like sandpaper against Maya's nerves.

She turned to leave, but her legs felt like lead. She had spent months building a connection with those in the photographs, painstakingly documenting their stories. She felt as though her own story had been stolen.