I’ve been serving champagne at special events for three years. It’s decent money—better than retail, worse than anything requiring a degree I don’t have. You show up, put on the black vest and white shirt, smile politely, and circulate with trays of wine and tiny appetizers that cost more than my rent. Rich people talk around you like you’re furniture. Invisible.
That’s fine. I’m good at being invisible. I’ve been doing it since I was six years old.
I work for Elite Events Catering, and tonight I’m working the opening of a new exhibition at the Duncan Gallery. High-end gallery, expensive art, expensive people, just another Thursday for me. Except tonight, I saw something that changed everything.
I saw a painting I made when I was six years old being sold for $150,000.
Have you ever seen something from your past you thought was lost forever? Share your thoughts in the comments.
The gallery was packed. Opening night of “Voices Unheard,” an outsider art collection. I’d read about it in the event brief. Art by unknown creators—children, homeless people, self-taught artists. The kind of art rich people buy to feel cultured and compassionate.
I adjusted my vest, picked up a tray of champagne flutes, and started circulating. Smile, offer drinks, move on. A woman in a designer dress took a glass without looking at me.
“This collection is extraordinary, Victor.”
Victor Duncan, the gallery owner, sixty-something, silver hair, expensive suit. He looked like money.
“Thank you, Margot. I’ve been curating this collection for decades. Each piece tells a story, and the provenance has been verified. Each piece comes with documentation of origin. Orphanages, group homes, street markets. I’ve spent years tracking down these works.”
Lies. I didn’t know that yet, but I would.
I moved through the crowd offering wine, picking up empty glasses. Then I turned a corner and saw it.
The painting.
I stopped, nearly dropped my tray. It was small, maybe twelve by sixteen, watercolor and crayon on paper, framed in expensive-looking dark wood. The image was abstract swirls of blue and yellow. Two figures, crude, childlike, one tall, one small, holding hands—or maybe just touching, hard to tell. It was the kind of painting a six-year-old makes.
But in the bottom right corner, barely visible, were three letters in green crayon: “Ang”—my mother’s name. And in the top left corner, a date, faded but there: 5/12/2003. May 12th, 2003. My sixth birthday.
My vision blurred. My hands started shaking.
I made this. I made this painting.
I made it for my mother. I remembered. I remembered the kitchen table, the watercolors she’d bought me from the dollar store, the way she smiled when I showed her.
“It’s beautiful, baby. It’s us, right? You and me?”
“Yeah, Mama. Always together.”
I remembered her hugging me, kissing my forehead. That was the day before they took me away.
I stared at the painting, at the little placard next to it.
“Untitled (Mother and Child). Artist Unknown. c. 2003. Found at St. Catherine’s Children’s Home. $150,000.”
My painting. My painting was being sold for $150,000, and I was serving champagne to the people admiring it.
I needed to move. People were staring. I was standing still, blocking the view. I forced my feet to work, walked to the back hallway, found the staff bathroom, locked myself inside, sat on the closed toilet lid, put my head in my hands, and breathed.
That painting. I made that painting. I knew I did. I remembered making it. I remembered every detail. The blue was the sky. The yellow was the sun. The two figures were me and my mom. I’d written “Ang” because I couldn’t spell her whole name yet. And I’d written the date because she’d taught me how to write numbers. I was so proud of it.
And the next day, the social worker came.
Mr. Duncan. I remember him now. Thin, smiled too much, said my mom wasn’t taking good care of me. She was. She loved me. She was just poor and alone and working three jobs to keep us fed. But that wasn’t enough for him.
He took me, put me in foster care. And he took the painting. I remember I was crying, holding the painting. He said,
“I’ll keep this safe for you, sweetheart. You’ll get it back.”
I never saw it again until tonight.
I stood, washed my face, looked in the mirror. Twenty-two years. I’d spent twenty-two years in the system. Seven different foster homes. Aged out at eighteen with nothing. And now, Victor Duncan had my painting and was selling it for $150,000.
I walked out of the bathroom, went straight to the painting. Victor was standing nearby, talking to a couple—potential buyers, probably. I walked up to him.
“Sir.”
He turned, looked at me, didn’t recognize me. Why would he? I was just staff.
“Yes?”
“This painting. I drew it when I was six.”
He blinked. The couple looked at me.
“Excuse me?” Victor said.
“This painting—it’s mine. I made it May 12th, 2003. It was my sixth birthday. I made it for my mother. Her name was Angela. That’s why I wrote ‘Ang’ in the corner.”
Victor’s face didn’t change, but his eyes did. Just a flicker. Recognition? Fear?
“That’s impossible,” he said smoothly. “This piece was donated anonymously from St. Catherine’s Children’s Home. The artist is unknown.”
“The artist is me. Aaron Perry. And you took it from me. You were the social worker who took me from my mother. You said you’d keep the painting safe. You lied.”
The couple was staring now. So were other guests nearby.
Victor smiled, patronizing.
“Miss, I think you’re confused. Perhaps you made a similar painting as a child. But this piece has been authenticated.”
“By who? You?”
“By professionals. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re disrupting the event. I’ll need to ask you to leave.”
“I’m not leaving. That’s my painting.”
“Security.”
A security guard appeared. Large, intimidating.
“Escort this woman out, please.”
“Wait.”
The guard took my arm. Firm, but not rough. I looked at Victor. He was already turning away, dismissing me.
“I’ll prove it,” I said loud enough for people to hear. “I’ll prove that painting is mine. And I’ll prove you stole it.”
He didn’t turn around.
The guard walked me out. I sat on the curb, still wearing my catering uniform. My manager, Tony, came out.
“Aaron, what the hell happened?”
“I saw a painting I made when I was a kid being sold for $150,000. I confronted the owner. He had me kicked out.”
Tony sighed.
“You can’t do that. You can’t confront clients.”
“He stole from me.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Well, until you do, you’re off the schedule. I can’t have you causing scenes.”
“Tony—”
“I’m sorry, Aaron. Call me when you sort this out.”
He left. I sat there alone, jobless, furious, but also determined.
Victor Duncan stole from me—from a six-year-old—and he’d been selling stolen art from vulnerable kids for decades, probably. I was going to prove it, and I was going to destroy him.
The next morning, I went to the library, used the public computers, and searched for “Victor Duncan” plus “social worker.” I found him licensed in New York from 1985 to 2005, working for the state child protective services. Then in 2005, he left social work, opened Duncan Gallery, specialized in outsider art.
Convenient.
I kept digging, found articles.
“Duncan Gallery Features Rare Collection of Children’s Art.”
“Victor Duncan’s Eye for Undiscovered Talent.”
“How One Man Preserves the Voices of Forgotten Artists.”
Forgotten artists, right? Stolen artists.
I needed proof. But how? I didn’t have the original painting. He did. I didn’t have photos of me with it. We didn’t have a camera back then. We were too poor.
But I had something. I had my memory, and I had details. The painting had more than just “Ang.” It had “For Mama, love Aaron” written on the back. If that painting was really mine, that writing would still be there, and Victor wouldn’t even remember it.
I just needed to see it. Prove it.
But how?
Two days later, I called the Duncan Gallery and asked to speak to Victor.
“Receptionist, may I ask what this is regarding?”
“I’m interested in purchasing a piece from the outsider art collection—the mother and child watercolor.”
“Oh, wonderful. Let me connect you to Mr. Duncan.”
A pause, then,
“This is Victor Duncan.”
“Mr. Duncan, my name is Claire. I’m interested in the watercolor piece, the one with the mother and child. I’d like to examine it before making an offer.”
“Of course. Are you a collector?”
“My family is. I’m new to this, but I have a budget of $200,000 for the right piece.”
His tone warmed.
“Excellent. When would you like to come in?”
“Tomorrow. Around 2:00 p.m.”
“Perfect. I’ll have the piece ready for viewing.”
I hung up.
Tomorrow. I’d see the back of that painting, and I’d prove it was mine.
The next day, I stood outside Duncan Gallery. I’d borrowed clothes from my roommate—nice blazer, dress pants, big eccentric glasses. I looked like someone who could spend $200,000 on art.
I took a breath and walked in.
The receptionist smiled.
“Can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Duncan. Two p.m. Claire Pine.” I made up the last name on the spot.
“Of course. One moment.”
She called back. Moments later, Victor appeared. He looked at me. For a second, I thought he’d recognize me, but he just smiled—professional, welcoming.
“Ms. Pine. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course. You’re interested in the mother and child piece?”
“Yes. I’d like to examine it closely, if that’s all right.”
“Absolutely. Follow me.”
He led me to a private viewing room—small, well lit, a table in the center. The painting sat on an easel under soft lighting.
My painting.
My chest tightened, but I kept my face neutral.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Victor said. “There’s something haunting about it. The simplicity, the emotion. It’s remarkable.”
“May I?” I gestured toward the painting.
“Please.”
I approached, studied it up close. The blue and yellow swirls, the two crude figures, the letters “Ang” in the corner, the date.
“The provenance says it was found at St. Catherine’s?” I asked.
“Yes. 2003. A staff member was cleaning out old storage, found several pieces by children. This one stood out.”
Liar.
“May I see the back?” I asked.
He hesitated. Just a flicker.
“The back?”
“Yes. I like to see the full piece. Sometimes there are marks, signatures—things that add to the story.”
“Of course.”
He carefully lifted the painting off the easel and turned it around. The back of the frame was sealed with brown paper backing.
“It’s been professionally framed,” he said, “to preserve it. The backing protects the original paper.”
“I understand, but I’d like to see beneath it before I make an offer.”
“That would require removing the backing, which could damage—”
“I’ll take that risk. I’m serious about purchasing, but I need to see everything first.”
He studied me, calculating. Finally,
“Very well. Let me get my tools.”
He left the room. I stood there, heart pounding. This was it. If my writing was on the back, he’d see it and he’d know I was right. But would he admit it, or would he destroy the evidence?
Victor returned with a small toolkit. He set the painting face down on the table. Carefully, he began removing the tiny nails holding the backing in place. I watched, silent, barely breathing.
He peeled back the brown paper, and there it was—the back of the original watercolor paper, faded, yellowed, but visible in green crayon. Childish handwriting.
“For Mama, love Aaron.”
Victor went very still.
I leaned closer.
“What does that say?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“It says ‘For Mama, love Aaron,’” I said. “Doesn’t it?”
He looked up at me. Really looked. Recognition dawned.
“You… you’re the girl from the opening. The caterer.”
“My name is Aaron Perry, and you took me from my mother twenty-two years ago. You took this painting from me. You said you’d keep it safe, and now you’re selling it for $150,000.”
“That’s not—this isn’t—” He shook his head. “My name is on the back,” I said. “‘Love, Aaron.’ That’s me. This is my painting.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I just did. My name, right there.”
He stood, stepped back.
“Lots of children are named Aaron. This could be anyone’s.”
“May 12th, 2003. My sixth birthday. I made this for my mother, Angela Perry. You came to our apartment the next day. You said she wasn’t fit to take care of me. You took me, and you took this painting. I was crying. You said you’d keep it safe for me.”
His face had gone pale.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving. That’s mine. You stole it.”
“I acquired it legally through proper channels.”
“You stole it from a six-year-old.”
“Get out, or I’m calling the police.”
“Good. Call them. I’ll show them the back of the painting, my name, my mother’s name, the date, and then I’ll tell them how you were my social worker, how you took me from my mother and took this painting the same day.”
“That doesn’t prove theft.”
“It proves you lied. You said the artist was unknown, but you know exactly who the artist is. Me. And I guess you’ve been profiting off stolen work from children for years.”
“You have no proof of that.”
“Not yet, but I’ll find it.”
“Security.”
The same guard from the opening appeared. Victor pointed at me.
“She’s trespassing. Remove her.”
I grabbed my phone and took photos fast—of the painting, of the back, of the writing.
The guard took my arm.
“I have proof now,” I said to Victor. “And I’m going to expose you.”
He said nothing. Just watched as I was escorted out. But I saw it in his eyes.
Fear.
That evening, I sat in my tiny apartment, staring at the photos on my phone—my painting, my name. I had proof it was mine.
But what now? I couldn’t afford a lawyer. I didn’t know how to fight someone like Victor Duncan.
I Googled “art theft” plus “journalist.” I found a name: Jodie Coleman, investigative journalist specializing in art fraud, forgeries, stolen works. I found her email and sent a message.
“Miss Coleman, my name is Aaron Perry. I have evidence that Victor Duncan, owner of Duncan Gallery, has been stealing and selling artwork created by children in foster care. I can prove one of the pieces currently for sale is mine. I’d like to speak with you.”
I hit send and hoped she’d respond.
Three days later, Jodie called.
“Aaron Perry?”
“Yes.”
“This is Jodie Coleman. I got your email. Tell me everything.”
I did. Start to finish. The painting. Victor taking me from my mother. The promise to keep it safe. Finding it at the gallery. The writing on the back.
Jodie was silent for a moment, then said,
“Do you have photos?”
“Yes. Of the painting and the back with my name on it.”
“Send them to me now.”
I did.
Another pause.
“Aaron,” she said, “I’ve been investigating Victor Duncan for two years. Besides the overpriced items due to the story he tells, I suspected he was acquiring works unethically, but I couldn’t prove it. This… this is the proof I needed.”
“So, you believe me?”
“I do. And I think you’re not the only one. I think there are other children whose art he stole.”
“I need to find them.”
“How?”
“Records. I’ll request documentation of every piece he sold, cross-reference with foster care systems, find the kids—now adults—and ask if they recognize their work.”
“Will that work?”
“It might, but I’ll need your help. Are you willing to go public with this?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t be easy. He’ll fight back. He has money, lawyers, reputation.”
“I don’t care. He stole from me. From kids who had nothing. He needs to be stopped.”
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
Jodie worked fast. Two weeks later, she found sales records from Duncan Gallery via state grants and audits. She found over two hundred pieces of outsider art sold in the past twenty years. She found patterns. Many pieces dated from 2000–2005, when Victor was a social worker. Many were labeled “found at children’s homes” or “acquired from estate sales of former foster children.”
Jodie started making calls. She found five people who recognized their childhood artwork being sold by Duncan Gallery. Five people who’d been in foster care. Five people Victor had been the caseworker for.
One of them was Gary.
Jodie arranged a meeting—me, her, and Gary. We met at a coffee shop. Gary was thirty-five, looked tired but determined.
“I saw my painting on Duncan’s website three years ago,” he said. “He said it was a drawing I made when I was eight, of my dog. I loved that dog. He died right before I went into foster care. I drew him to remember.”
“Victor took it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Said he’d preserve it for me. I never saw it again until I found it online being sold for $80,000.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I tried. He denied it was mine. Said lots of kids draw dogs. I didn’t have proof, so I gave up.”
“We have proof now,” Jodie said. “Aaron’s painting has her name on it, and we’re building a case. If we all come forward together…”
“I’m in,” Gary said. “I’m tired of people like him taking from us. We were kids. We had nothing. And he stole the one thing we did have—our memories.”
I reached across the table, shook his hand.
“Thank you.”
Three weeks later, Jodie published her article: “Stolen Childhoods: How One Gallery Owner Profited from Foster Children’s Art.”
It went viral.
She laid out everything—Victor’s history as a social worker, the timeline, the five of us, me, Gary, and three others, testifying that our art had been taken and sold, photos of the paintings, proof of our identities, statements from former foster care workers confirming Victor had access to children’s belongings.
The art world erupted. Duncan Gallery was flooded with calls, protests outside, buyers demanding refunds.
Victor released a statement.
“These allegations are false. All works were acquired legally and ethically.”
But the evidence was overwhelming. The district attorney opened an investigation.
One month later, I got a call from the DA’s office.
“Miss Perry, we’ve gathered enough evidence to charge Victor Duncan with theft, fraud, and exploitation of minors. We’d like you to testify.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“There’s something else. We’ve been investigating his records. We found documentation related to your case—your removal from your mother’s care.”
My heart stopped.
“What kind of documentation?”
“Reports, court filings, and records of your mother’s attempts to regain custody.”
“She tried?”
“Yes. For four years, she filed petitions, attended hearings, completed parenting classes—everything the court asked.”
“Why didn’t she get me back?”
“The caseworker, Victor Duncan, repeatedly filed reports claiming she was unfit, that she’d missed appointments, failed drug tests. But we found inconsistencies—dates that don’t match, test results that were never actually conducted.”
“He lied.”
“It appears so. We believe he fabricated reports to keep you in the system.”
“Why would he do that?”
“We don’t know for certain, but he may have profited from the foster families.”
I felt sick.
“He kept me away from my mother because he received money from foster families?”
“It’s one theory we’re investigating. Not only money—we think he had access to some art you drew there, too.”
“What happened to her?” I whispered. “My mother?”
Silence.
“Miss Perry, your mother passed away in 2007. Pneumonia. She was hospitalized but didn’t seek treatment in time. According to medical records, she’d been suffering from severe depression.”
My world tilted.
“She… she died.”
“I’m very sorry.”
I couldn’t speak.
“There’s more. Before she passed, she wrote letters to the court begging to see you. She kept every drawing you’d made before you were removed. She had them in a box. When she died, her belongings went to the state. We found the box. It’s in evidence now, but after this is over, it’s yours.”
I was crying, couldn’t stop.
“She never stopped fighting for you,” the DA said gently. “I thought you should know.”
Two months later, Victor Duncan was charged with fifteen counts of theft and fraud. I testified. So did Gary and the three others. We told our stories. The prosecutor presented evidence—the paintings, the forged reports, the timeline.
Victor’s lawyers argued, claimed the art was abandoned property, that he’d preserved it, but the jury didn’t buy it.
Guilty on all counts.
Sentencing: eight years in prison, restitution to all victims, forfeiture of all stolen works.
The judge looked at Victor.
“You were entrusted with the care of vulnerable children, and you exploited them for profit. There is no excuse for what you’ve done.”
Victor was led away in handcuffs. I watched him go and felt empty. Not triumphant. Just sad.
Three months later, the DA’s office returned my painting and the box of drawings my mother had kept. I sat on my apartment floor and opened the box. Dozens of drawings—crayon, marker, watercolor—all from when I was five and six years old.
And at the bottom, letters. Letters from my mother to the court.
“Please let me see my daughter. I’m doing everything you asked. I got a better job. I have stable housing. I completed the classes. Please. She’s my whole world. I miss Aaron every day. I think about her constantly. Is she okay? Is she happy? Please tell her I love her. Please tell her I’m trying. I’m sick. The doctor says I need to rest, but I can’t rest. I need to get Aaron back. That’s all that matters.”
The last letter was dated two weeks before she died.
“I don’t think I’m going to make it. I’m too tired. But please, someone tell Aaron I loved her. Tell her I never stopped fighting. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her home.”
I held the letter and sobbed. She’d loved me. She’d fought for me. And I never knew.
Jodie helped me find my mother’s grave. Small cemetery. Modest headstone.
“Angela Perry, 1975–2007. Beloved mother.”
Someone had paid for it. Maybe the state. Maybe a charity.
I knelt down, set the painting against the headstone—the painting I’d made for her, the last thing I’d given her before Victor took me away.
“Hi, Mama,” I whispered. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you tried. I didn’t know you fought for me.”
The wind rustled through the trees.
“I got the painting back. The one I made for you. I wanted you to have it like I promised.”
I traced her name on the stone.
“I know you loved me. I know you did everything you could. And I love you, too. I always did. I just… I wish I could have told you.”
I stayed for a long time, just sitting there with her, with the painting, finally feeling connected.
Six months later, the stolen artworks were returned to their creators. Gary got his dog painting back, cried when he held it. The others got theirs. Some sold them—needed the money. Others kept them—needed the memory.
I kept mine. I hung it in my apartment where I could see it every day. A reminder of my mother, of the love she had for me, of the fight she fought.
Jodie’s article won awards. Laws were changed. More oversight, more protections.
Gary and I stayed in touch, became friends. Sometimes we met for coffee and talked about our childhoods, our mothers, the system that failed us. And we talked about healing.
Because that’s what we were doing.
Finally, healing.
I don’t work in catering anymore. After the trial, the restitution from Victor’s assets was divided among the victims. My share—$80,000—was enough to change my life. I went back to school, enrolled in an art therapy program.
I want to work with foster kids, teach them art, help them process trauma.
Three years ago, I walked into a gallery to serve champagne. I saw a painting—my painting—being sold for $150,000. I could have stayed silent, stayed invisible, but I didn’t. I walked up to one of the most powerful men in the art world and said,
“Sir, this painting is mine. I drew it when I was six.”
He said it was impossible.
But I proved him wrong.
And in doing so, I found my mother again. Not in person. She was gone. But in the painting, in her letters, in the love she’d left behind.
And that was enough. It had to be.
Which moment hit you hardest—when Aaron saw the painting, when she discovered the writing on the back, or when she learned her mother had fought for her until she died? Share your thoughts, your experiences with standing up to injustice in the comments below.
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