My passion for photography feels almost like an inheritance, passed down through generations and tied to the very essence of my being. Growing up, I was surrounded by the love and wisdom of my mom, grandmother, and grandfather. They nurtured my curiosity, and though I never had the chance to meet my father, his absence always lingered in the background of my life. My father passed away when I was in college, at an age when I was desperately trying to figure out who I was and where I came from.

I often found myself wondering what my father might have looked like—searching for fragments of him, imagining his face in the digital age. But back then, I had no tools to help me reconstruct his image. My mother once handed me a local newspaper clipping with an obituary photo of my father, and it was the first and only tangible connection to him I had. I remember wishing, with all my heart, that I could have had an album full of his photos—images that could have told his story.

Then, something remarkable happened during my college years that would change everything. I met Jackie, my now-wife. She visited me in college one day, and after taking a long look at me, she said, “You look like someone I know from my hometown.” Her words struck me, and, without hesitation, I showed her a photo of the man my mom had described as my father. Jackie’s reaction was unlike anything I expected. Her face went through a whirlwind of emotions, and as she pulled me into a hug, she whispered, “Mike, I know your dad. He was the best photographer in my hometown. You look so much like him.” She even pulled out a few of his photographs from her wallet—his work, his art, and his legacy. It was an overwhelming moment, and all at once, I felt like I had discovered a piece of him I never knew.

That was when I truly understood why photography had always been a part of me, even though I never had a chance to know my father personally. I couldn’t help but feel a deep connection to his craft. The fact that Jackie had some of his photos in her possession only strengthened my resolve.

From that moment, I realized that I wasn’t just carrying the memory of my father’s absence, but the legacy of his artistry.