I grew up surrounded by film cameras. I remember trips to Jean Coutu to drop off rolls of film, and the excitement of picking up the negatives once they were developed. Every time I was at your house, I’d flip through the albums you kept tucked behind your bedroom door, mesmerized by the memories frozen in each frame.

You always had a camera in your hands, even when we didn’t notice. Every important moment—family gatherings, birthdays, quiet afternoons with friends—you captured it all.

You preserved life in pictures, turning fading moments into memories we could keep. I often wonder how many hours of your life were spent behind the lens, carefully organizing countless photos into albums.

You passed on your love of photography to me, but it took losing you for me to realize just how deeply it runs in my veins. If I had understood sooner that this gift came from you, I would have made sure you were in front of the camera more often—because while you were busy capturing the world, you were missing from it.

Now, every time I lift my own camera, I see you there. And though I wish I had captured more of you, I feel your presence in every photo I take.

My photography career is dedicated to you.