Growing up I would feel sorry for the kids who came from broken homes. How awful it must be to split yourself between two families, moving from one home to another. My parents’ relationship was so strong, I would never experience this. Or so I thought. Cracks began to show. Arguments crept into our home. Slowly they took over, from silly things that lasted minutes to large eruptions that lingered for days. I came home one evening at the age of sixteen to discover my parents would be separating and my dad and brother would be moving out. Suddenly, the family unit that I believed was invincible was now ripping apart at the seams. The lines drawn between us forced us apart and there was no coming back. Irreparable damage had been done. Both of my parents began seeing other people. I hated it. I hated knowing that the two people I believed would always be together no longer were. I avoided looking back at our family photographs, knowing the pain they would bring. I hid them away in our attic for years until one day I realised I had to face them to move on. I refused to allow what happened taint our memories, so I gathered our images and began searching for the beauty in each. This project for me was a way of overcoming the emotions I had clung to. I used this experience as a process of overcoming grief and trauma and finally letting go of something I had refused for so long. We were once a perfect story of love and connection and now we are living chapters apart.
