A Painting at the Gallery Looked Exactly Like My Daughter – But When I Met the Artist, I Couldn’t Believe My Eyes

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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.”

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?”