I didn’t stop.
The girl in the portrait wore Lily’s yellow sweater. Her hair was tucked behind one ear the way Lily always wore it when she was concentrating. She had Lily’s amber eyes, Lily’s almost-smile, Lily’s little strawberry-shaped birthmark under her jaw — the one I used to kiss when she was small and feverish.
This was not a girl who looked like my child.
This was Lily.
Beneath the painting was a small brass plaque.
Self-Portrait: Nova, 15.
“No,” I whispered. “No way.”
Tracy reached my side. “Tanya.”…continue reading …
