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.”
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.
