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.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.”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.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.