In every photo of me until I was 6, my face is covered in scratches.
My parents always said it was because printers were low quality back then.
Today, I was visiting my aunt and found a photo album of a family gathering from 1992.
I was horrified when I discovered my face scratched out again—but the photos were clearly originals. The colors hadn’t faded, and the texture felt like something out of a professional studio. It wasn’t a printer problem. Someone had intentionally taken something sharp to my face—on every single photo.
And then I noticed something else.
On the back of one of the pictures, in faded blue ink, was a name I’d never heard before: “Mina.”
