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I’d avoided almost everything since my daughter died, but my sister finally dragged me back into the world. I expected to spend one evening pretending to be fine. Instead, I found my child’s face in a painting labeled as someone else’s self-portrait, and the artist’s truth changed everything.
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The painting had my dead daughter’s face.
It wasn’t a face like my Lily’s. It wasn’t a girl who reminded me of her because I’d stared too long and missed her badly enough.
It was Lily.
She had Lily’s amber eyes and Lily’s hair tucked behind one ear. She even had the tiny strawberry-shaped birthmark under her jaw that I used to kiss when she was little and feverish.
Beneath the painting, on a small brass plaque, were two words that made the room tilt.
“Self-Portrait.”
She had Lily’s amber eyes.
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***
I hadn’t heard Lily’s laugh in three years and two months. I knew the time because grief had made me strange with numbers.
Now, my sister, Tracy, had pushed a plastic cup of red wine into my hand and said, “Please, Tanya, try to look at something besides the exit.”
“I am looking,” I said.
“You’re glaring at a sculpture.”
“It looks like a melted toaster.”
She almost smiled.
“You’re glaring at a sculpture.”
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***
The youth art exhibition was her idea. It was in a downtown gallery, it featured local teenagers, and admission was free.
“Low pressure,” she promised.
Low pressure ended the second I turned into the “Emerging Talents” section and saw Lily staring back at me from a white wall.
The cup slipped from my hand.
“Tanya?” Tracy said. “What in the name of God?”
I walked toward the painting.
The cup slipped from my hand.
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Someone said, “Ma’am, please don’t touch the artwork.”
I didn’t stop.
***
The girl in the portrait wore Lily’s yellow sweater. She was half-smiling like she was about to say something clever.
I stepped closer and read the plaque again.
“Self-Portrait: Nova, 15.”
“No,” I said. “No way.”
Tracy reached my side. “Tanya.”
“Please don’t touch the artwork.”
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I turned to the woman with the clipboard. “Excuse me, who painted this?”
She blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Who painted my daughter?”
Her face changed. “This is a student exhibition, ma’am.”
“My daughter died three years ago,” I said, loud enough for people to turn. “That’s her face. That’s her birthmark. So why does that plaque say self-portrait?”
The woman looked from me to the painting. “I’m Andrea, the coordinator. The artist is around here somewhere.”
“Excuse me, who painted this?”
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“Then take me to her.”
Tracy caught my wrist. “Tanya, slow down.”
“No.” I pulled free. “Nova painted Lily on that wall, and I need to know why.”
Andrea’s brows lifted slightly. “You know Nova?”
“Yes. Well, I know of her,” I said. “My daughter talked about her after weekends at her dad’s house. I knew Patrick had a stepdaughter. I didn’t know she could paint my child from memory.”
I had met Nova a few times, though Elaine had forbidden her to come to our house.
“Tanya, slow down.”
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Andrea nodded carefully and led us down a side hallway.
“Did Nova use a photo?” I asked.
“I can’t answer that,” Andrea said. “The students submit their own artist statements.”
“Then she can explain it herself.”
***
We stopped outside a small room where a teenage girl stood by a table of name tags, picking dried paint from her sleeve.
Andrea softened her voice. “Nova?”
The girl turned.
For a second, grief blurred her.
“Did Nova use a photo?”
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Then I saw the dark curls and the careful posture.
It was Nova, Patrick’s stepdaughter.
She was Lily’s “Supernova.”
She was taller now. Nothing about her face matched Lily’s.
But the painting did.
Every inch of it matched.
Nova saw me and went pale. “You’re Lily’s mom.”
She was taller now.
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“And you’re Nova,” I said. “Lily told me a lot of stories.”
Her eyes filled. “She talked about me?”
“All the time, sweetheart,” I said. “But not like this. I didn’t know you two were this close.”
Nova looked toward the gallery like she wanted to run.
I stepped closer. “Why did you paint my daughter and call it a self-portrait, Nova?”
Her fingers tightened around her sleeves. “Because she was my sister too.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“She talked about me?”
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***
I’d known Lily liked her. She came home talking about “Supernova,” their made-up songs, and the time they put glitter in Elaine’s shampoo.
But sister?
Lily had never said it that plainly.
Maybe she’d been afraid it would hurt me.
Nova wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “Even if nobody wanted us to say it.”
“Tanya,” my sister whispered.
I held up a hand. “Tracy, I need to see this through.”
Lily had never said it that plainly.
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I looked at Nova. “Who didn’t want you to say it?”
Nova swallowed. “My mom.”
“Elaine didn’t want you to be close?”
She nodded.
My stomach tightened. “Why?”
“She said it confused things. She said Lily already had a mom, and I already had one, and Dad didn’t need more family drama. She said I didn’t need a sister. I could be enough by myself for Dad.”
“Who didn’t want you to say it?”
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I looked back toward the gallery, toward the impossible painting. “That still doesn’t explain how you got every detail right.”
“I remembered her.”
“That perfectly?”
Nova’s chin trembled. “I loved her, Aunt Tanya. She was special to me.”
I gripped the strap of my purse.
“Nova,” I said quietly. “Who told you to keep this from me?”
“I remembered her.”
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The teenager wiped her cheeks with both sleeves. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I softened my voice because she was still a child. Older than Lily had been, yes, but still young enough to look terrified of every adult in the room.
“I know,” I said. “But I need to understand why nobody told me you and Lily were that close.”
Nova opened her mouth, but a voice behind us answered first.
“Because it was complicated.”
I turned.
The teenager wiped her cheeks.
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Elaine stood in the doorway. Her cream blazer was crisp, and her smile was cold.
Nova went still.
That told me more than any explanation could have.
Elaine looked at her daughter. “Sweetheart, you were supposed to stay near your display.”
“I was,” Nova said quietly.
“No. You were making a scene.”
I stepped slightly in front of Nova. “She wasn’t. I asked about the painting.”
Nova went still.
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Elaine’s eyes moved to me. “Tanya, I’m sorry. This must be upsetting.”
“Don’t call my daughter’s face upsetting like it’s spilled wine.”
Tracy touched my elbow. “Tanya.”
“I’m fine,” I said, though I wasn’t. I pointed toward the gallery. “Why did you want that painting hidden behind a fake title? Nova is talented. You should have told me that my child was her subject.”
Elaine’s jaw tightened. “Nova has been grieving in an unhealthy way. Her therapist encouraged art, not public drama.”
“This must be upsetting.”
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Nova lifted her head. “Dr. Barrow said I should tell the truth about my sister.”
“Nova,” Elaine warned.