A Painting at the Gallery Looked Exactly Like My Daughter – But When I Met the Artist, I Couldn’t Believe My Eyes I had avoided almost everything since my daughter died.

That was the most we had managed in months.

I hadn’t heard Lily’s laugh in three years and two months. I knew the exact time because grief had made me strange with numbers. I counted days. Weeks. Missed birthdays. Missed school years. The age she should have been.

So I went because Tracy needed me to try.

I expected one evening of pretending to be fine.

Then I turned into the “Emerging Talents” section and saw my dead daughter’s face on a white gallery wall.

The cup slipped from my hand.

Red wine splashed across the polished floor.

“Tanya?” Tracy said. “What in the name of God?”

I walked toward the painting.

Someone behind me said, “Ma’am, please don’t touch the artwork.”