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Outside, cold air hit my face, and for the first time since seeing the painting, I could breathe.
I turned to Patrick.
“Did you let Elaine box up Lily’s things?”
Closed.
“Answer me.”
“No. It helped you stop feeling guilty.”
“I kept this.”
“Nova.”
“Let her speak,” I said.
Pink marker covered the edges. Crooked stars sat in the corners.
Supernova, come to my birthday or I’ll be offended forever. Love, Lily.
“This was Lily’s last birthday.”
I remembered Lily sitting by the window that day, wearing a paper crown.
“Maybe Nova’s busy,” I had told her.
Lily had shrugged too hard.
“It’s fine.”
It had not been fine.
I looked at Elaine.
“You hid this?”
Elaine’s voice stayed thin. “Nova and I had plans.”
“No, I didn’t,” Nova said. “You told me Lily didn’t really want me there.”
Patrick turned toward Elaine.
“You told me Tanya changed the date.”
Elaine looked cornered now.
“The girls were too attached. Every time Lily came over, Nova forgot where she belonged. And Patrick forgot that Nova was his stepdaughter.”
Nova stepped back as if the words had physically struck her.
I moved beside her.
“She belonged with people who loved her.”
The side door opened.
Andrea leaned out.
“Nova? We’re announcing you now.”
Nova wiped her face.
Elaine said sharply, “You don’t have to do this.”
Nova looked at the invitation in my hand.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
Elaine turned colder.
“You are not speaking tonight.”
Nova looked at me.
Then at Patrick.
Her hands shook, but her chin lifted.
“Yes, I am.”
We walked back into the gallery as Andrea stepped to the front.
“Our next artist is Nova,” she said carefully.
Nova stood beside the painting.
Elaine remained near the wall, stiff with anger. Patrick stood beside me, pale and silent. Tracy squeezed my hand.
Nova faced the room.
“My painting is called Self-Portrait,” she began. “I know it doesn’t look like me at all. Lily was my stepsister. She died three years ago.”
The gallery went silent.
“People told me to be myself again after she died,” Nova continued. “But Lily was part of who I was. She called me Supernova when I felt small. She made me brave before I knew how to be.”
Elaine whispered, “Nova, stop.”
Andrea stepped in front of her.
“Let her finish.”
Nova wiped her cheeks.
“Some people wanted me to stop saying Lily’s name because it made them uncomfortable. But grief isn’t bad manners. I painted her because loving her changed me. Losing her changed me too. This is the part of me named Lily.”
Elaine looked around, waiting for someone to rescue her from the silence.
No one did.
Then the room began to clap.
Nova broke.
I went to her.
“May I?”
She nodded.
I hugged her, and she collapsed against me.
“I’m sorry I missed her party,” she sobbed.
“You were a child,” I whispered. “The adults were supposed to be braver. Smarter. Kinder.”
Behind me, Patrick’s voice cracked.
“I let Elaine make Lily smaller because I was too much of a coward to argue in my own house.”
I looked back at him.
“Yes,” I said. “So start fixing what can still be fixed.”
That night, Andrea changed the label.
The Part of Me Named Lily: Nova, 15.
A week later, Patrick brought Lily’s boxes to my house.
Inside were drawings, photos, birthday cards, and a bracelet with L + N in tiny beads.
Nova touched one photo gently.
“She laughed right after this.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I slipped in mud.”
“Lily laughed?”
“Then she fell on purpose so I wouldn’t feel dumb.”
I smiled through tears.
“That sounds like her.”
The following Sunday, I took Nova to Lily’s grave.
She stood beside me, holding the beaded bracelet in both hands.
“I’m scared I’ll forget her voice,” she whispered.
“Then I’ll tell you stories until neither of us forgets.”
She looked at me.
“Can I tell you mine too?”
I nodded.
I had walked into that gallery thinking someone had stolen my daughter’s face.
Instead, I found the girl who had been carrying Lily’s name in silence.
And for the first time in three years and two months, grief did not feel like an empty room.
It felt like someone had opened a window.
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