I was working as a waitress at an exhibition when I suddenly saw a painting on the wall that I myself had drawn at the age of six, and beneath it was the price — 3 million 

When I told the gallery owner that this painting was mine, he just laughed and ordered that I be thrown out. But none of them knew one very important detail. And when I pointed it out, everyone was in shock 

I’ve always joked that at work I know how to become invisible. Black trousers, a white shirt, a vest — and it’s as if I don’t exist. There’s only the tray, the champagne glasses, and the routine smile.

That evening everything went as usual. Outside — winter; inside the gallery — stifling air, the smell of expensive perfumes and food I could never afford in my life. People in costly suits wandered between the paintings, speaking about art in half-voices, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.

I moved through the hall on autopilot. The tray was heavy, my hands already hurt, my legs ached. My thoughts were far away until I stopped in front of one painting.

At first, I didn’t even understand why. Watercolor. Blurred colors. Blue and yellow spots. Two figures — one taller, the other shorter. Very simple. Almost childlike. And suddenly, my breath caught.

I knew those lines. I knew every single brushstroke.

I stepped closer. My heart was pounding so loudly that it felt like everyone around could hear it. On the placard it read:

“Unknown author. Found in an orphanage. 2005.” Below — the price. 3,500,000.

And in the corner of the painting — crooked letters. Uneven. Childish. My signature.

I remembered how I had painted it — without thinking, simply because I wanted to. And then I had completely forgotten about that painting.

And now it was hanging here. Under glass. Guarded. With a price tag that made my vision darken.

I didn’t even realize how I took a step forward and said:

— This painting… is mine. I painted it.

The gallery owner looked me up and down.

— That’s impossible, — he said and started laughing.

I pointed to the corner of the canvas:

— Look. That’s my signature.

He smirked. He didn’t even bother to argue. He simply waved to security to have me thrown out of the gallery.

But he didn’t know one detail. And when that detail came to light, everyone in the hall felt their hair stand on end…  Continued in the first comment 

He was still smirking and was about to turn away when I said quietly but clearly:

— Wait. I can prove it.

I carefully set the tray down on the edge of a table. My hands were shaking. I took out my phone and scrolled through old files I had never deleted. I stopped at one photo.

In the photo, it was me. Small. Thin. In an oversized sweater. I was standing behind an old table, holding that very painting in my hands. The paper was slightly bent, the paint hadn’t fully dried yet. In the corner — the same signature. Mine.

I raised the phone and showed it first to the gallery owner, then to the people around me.

— It’s a fake, — he said, no longer so confident.

— No, — I replied. — Look at the date. The background. The signature. This photo was taken in the same year listed on the placard.

The hall fell silent.

After some time, experts were called in. First, they examined the painting. Then they compared the signature. Then they looked again at the photograph. They asked me questions — where I lived, where the paints came from, who might have kept the drawing. I answered everything.

An investigation began. The painting was no longer hanging on the wall. It was taken to a separate room.

A few days later, I was called back again. The experts confirmed: the paper, the paint, the signature, the age of the drawing — everything matched.

The photo turned out to be authentic. And most importantly, documents were found that confirmed exactly how this artwork had ended up in the gallery.

That evening, as I served champagne and felt invisible, my life changed forever.