A gallery painting bore my daughter’s face—until the truth behind it shattered everything I thought I knew

“I do.”

We walked back inside together.

The gallery quieted as Andrea introduced her.

Nova stood beside the painting.

Patrick remained motionless near the back wall.

Elaine stood rigid.

Tracy squeezed my hand.

Nova faced the audience.

“My painting is called Self-Portrait,” she began, her voice unsteady. “Even though it doesn’t look like me.”

The room went continue reading …