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On a visit to the little city where I grew up, I stumbled upon the photo studio that had documented my progress from awkward 15-year old to young law student, then to ambitious lifestyle journalist.

Each time I returned for a visit, I would make the dutiful trip to Image Bank, sitting self-consciously beneath the yellow lights, alone or more often than not, with my mom, dad and sister.
When digital cameras entered the picture, the yearly ritual lost its relevance, to be revived years later as a special treat when two motherless little girls, my nieces, joined our family. This year, out of nostalgia, I paid the studio a call once more. ⧭
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