The painting showed my deceased daughter’s face.
It was not a face simply similar to my Mila’s. It was not a teenager who made me think of her just because I had looked for too many minutes and missed her terribly.
It genuinely was Mila.
She possessed Mila’s golden eyes and Mila’s hair pushed gently behind a single ear. She even possessed the small berry-shaped spot right beneath her chin that I would kiss back when she was tiny and running a temperature.
Directly below the painting, resting on a tiny metal plate, sat a couple of words that caused the entire space to spin.
“Self-Portrait.”
I had not listened to Mila’s giggle for a solid three years and a couple of months. I remembered the exact timeframe because sorrow had made me obsessed with counting.
Right at that moment, my sister, Nora, pressed a plastic glass of dark wine into my palm and stated, “I beg you, Aria, attempt to stare at something other than the door.”
“I am observing,” I replied.
“You are staring angrily at a sculpture.”
“It appears like a deformed bread warmer.”
She practically grinned.
The teenage creative exhibition was completely her suggestion. It took place inside a city center gallery, it highlighted neighborhood teens, and walking in was completely free.
“No stress at all,” she swore to me.
That lack of stress disappeared the very moment I strolled into the “Rising Stars” area and noticed Mila looking directly at me from a blank wall.
The glass fell right out of my grip.
“Aria?” Nora questioned. “What in the world is going on?”
I marched straight toward the painting.
A random person warned, “Miss, kindly avoid touching the painting.”
I did not pause at all.
The teenager in the painting sported Mila’s mustard-colored sweater. She displayed a tiny grin as if she were prepared to drop a smart remark.
I moved nearer and examined the small sign one more time.
“Self-Portrait: Isla, 15.”
“Impossible,” I muttered. “Absolutely not.”
Nora caught up to my side. “Aria.”
I spun toward the lady holding a writing board. “Pardon me, who painted this?”
She blinked rapidly. “Miss?”
“Who painted my little girl?”
Her expression shifted. “This remains a youth exhibition, miss.”
“My little girl passed away three years back,” I stated, raising my volume enough to make strangers spin around. “Those are her exact features. That is her specific mark. So why exactly does that sign declare it a self-portrait?”
The lady shifted her gaze between my face and the painting. “My name is Ruby, the event manager. The artist is wandering around this building somewhere.”
“Then guide me over to her.”
Nora grabbed my arm. “Aria, calm yourself down.”
“Negative.” I yanked my arm away. “Isla painted Mila upon that wall, and I require the explanation why.”
Ruby’s eyebrows raised a tiny bit. “You are acquainted with Isla?”
“Correct. Well, I know about her existence,” I clarified. “My little girl mentioned her following weekend stays at her father’s place. I was aware Mateo possessed a stepdaughter. I had absolutely no clue she possessed the skill to paint my kid strictly from memory.”
I had bumped into Isla on a few occasions, even though Sofia had completely banned her from visiting our residence.
Ruby gave a cautious nod and guided the two of us down a narrow corridor.
“Did Isla utilize a picture?” I questioned.
“I am unable to provide that detail,” Ruby replied. “The students hand in their personal artist statements.”
“Then she is able to clarify the situation herself.”
We halted right outside a tiny space where a young teen stood near a desk full of identity tags, picking dried paint off her clothing.
Ruby lowered her volume. “Isla?”
The young girl spun around.
For a brief moment, my sorrow made her look blurry.
Then I noticed the dark waves and the stiff way she held her body.
It truly was Isla, Mateo’s stepdaughter.
She was Mila’s personal “Supernova.”
She was much taller nowadays. Absolutely nothing regarding her physical features looked like Mila’s.
However, the painting certainly did.
Every single inch of it was a match.
Isla noticed me and lost all color. “You are Mila’s mother.”
“And you happen to be Isla,” I replied. “Mila shared plenty of tales with me.”
Her eyes grew wet. “She spoke regarding me?”
“Constantly, sweetie,” I responded. “Yet not in this manner. I had no idea the two of you were so bonded.”
Isla glanced toward the gallery as if she desperately wished to sprint away.
I moved closer. “Why did you paint my little girl and label it your self-portrait, Isla?”
Her hands squeezed tightly around her sleeves. “Because she acted like my sister as well.”
Those specific words struck way heavier than I anticipated.
I was aware Mila cared for her. She returned home chatting about “Supernova,” the silly tracks they created, and the afternoon they dumped sparkles inside Sofia’s hair wash.
Yet a sister?
Mila had never stated it that clearly.
Perhaps she feared it would break my heart.
Isla rubbed her cheek using her sleeve. “Even if nobody wished for us to admit it.”
“Aria,” my sibling murmured quietly.
I raised a palm in the air. “Nora, I must figure this whole thing out.”
I stared at Isla. “Who refused to let you say it?”
Isla gulped heavily. “My mother.”
“Sofia refused to let you two grow close?”
She gave a nod.
My gut clenched hard. “For what reason?”
“She claimed it made situations messy. She claimed Mila already possessed a mother, and I already possessed one, and Dad required zero additional household issues. She claimed I did not require a sister. I was supposed to be plenty all on my own for Dad.”
I glanced back at the gallery, straight at the unbelievable painting. “That fact still fails to clarify how you nailed every single detail.”
“I remembered her.”
“That flawlessly?”
Isla’s lower jaw quivered. “I cared for her deeply, Aunt Aria. She meant the world to me.”
I squeezed the handle of my handbag tightly.
“Isla,” I spoke softly. “Who commanded you to hide this reality from me?”
The teenager rubbed her cheeks with both sleeves. “I never intended to cause you pain.”
I softened my tone simply because she remained a child. Older than Mila had been, naturally, but still youthful enough to appear frightened of every single grown-up inside that space.
“I am aware of that,” I stated. “Yet I must understand why nobody informed me that you and Mila shared such a bond.”
Isla parted her lips, yet a different voice behind our backs responded first.
“Because the situation was messy.”
I spun around.
Sofia lingered in the doorway. Her cream jacket looked crisp, and her grin appeared freezing.
Isla froze completely.
That reaction provided me more information than any verbal excuse ever could.
Sofia stared at her daughter. “Sweetie, you were instructed to remain close to your display.”
“I actually was,” Isla replied quietly.
“Incorrect. You were creating a public scene.”
I shifted my body slightly to block Isla. “She absolutely was not. I was the one questioning about the painting.”
Sofia’s gaze shifted directly to my face. “Aria, I apologize. This must feel disturbing.”
“Do not label my child’s face disturbing as if it were a spilled wine.”
Nora tapped my elbow. “Aria.”
“I am perfectly okay,” I stated, even though I was not. I pointed straight at the gallery. “Why did you demand that painting hidden beneath a fake title? Isla possesses great talent. You ought to have informed me that my child was her subject.”
Sofia’s jaw locked tight. “Isla has been grieving through unhealthy habits. Her therapist suggested art, not a public drama.”
Isla raised her head up. “Dr. Barrow claimed I ought to share the honest facts regarding my sister.”
“Isla,” Sofia warned her.
“Negative, Mom.” Her voice shook, yet she pushed forward. “You demanded me to name it ‘Girl in Yellow’.”
I stared at Sofia. “For what reason?”
“Simply because not every detail belongs out in front of strangers.”
“My daughter’s name belongs everywhere people loved her.”
“I was just protecting Isla.”
“You took the photographs down,” Isla whispered softly.
The entire room fell completely quiet.
I spun toward her carefully. “What exact pictures, sweetie?”
“The ones at home. Mila’s school photo. Our lake picture. Our picnic picture holding Olive, the cat.”
Sofia snapped. “Enough.”
Isla winced.
I faced Sofia fully. “Do not snap at her for telling the truth. Where exactly is Mateo?”
Sofia gave a careless shrug and then looked away.
I pulled out my phone and dialed my ex-husband.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Aria?”
“Are you currently at the gallery?”
“I am parking. Why? Why are you there?”
“We need to talk.”
“What happened?” he asked.
I looked at the painting through the open doorway. “I found Mila.”
There was total silence.
Then he spoke softly, “What?”
I hung up.
Five minutes later, Mateo appeared.
He noticed Isla crying. Then he noticed the painting.
“Mila,” he spoke. “My baby.”
I faced him directly. “Did you know about this? Did you know Sofia demanded it be renamed?”
Mateo shook his head.
“She was erasing Mila again. And you permitted it.”
Sofia stepped closer. “I was definitely not erasing your daughter. I was simply stopping my daughter from living in Mila’s shadow.”
Isla’s voice cracked. “I never existed in her shadow, Mom. I absolutely never did. I was with her.”
Mateo stared at Isla like he had missed an entire language she had been speaking for years.
Ruby appeared in the doorway. “Isla, your artist talk starts in exactly ten minutes. Do you need a moment?”
“Yes,” I stated, right before Sofia could answer. “We all do.”
Outside, the cold air hit my face, and I could finally breathe.
Isla stood beside the wall, hugging herself.
I turned to Mateo. “Did you let Sofia pack away Mila’s belongings?”
His mouth opened, then closed.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” he stated. “I thought it would help everyone move on.”
“No. It helped you stop feeling guilty.”
Isla pulled a folded paper from her dress pocket.
“I kept this.”
Sofia lost all her color. “Isla.”
“Let her speak,” I demanded.
Isla handed it over to me.
There was pink marker on the paper and crooked stars in the corners.
“Supernova, come to my birthday or I will be offended forever. Love, Mila.”
My hands shook. “This was Mila’s last birthday.”
Isla nodded. “I never came.”
I remembered Mila waiting by the window holding a paper crown.
“Maybe Isla is busy,” I had mentioned.
Mila had shrugged way too hard. “It is fine.”
It genuinely had not been fine.
I stared right at Sofia. “You hid this?”
Sofia’s voice remained thin. “Isla and I had plans.”
“No, I definitely did not,” Isla fired back. “You told me Mila did not really want me there.”
Mateo spun around. “You told me Aria changed the date.”
Sofia looked completely cornered. “The girls were too attached. Every time Mila came over, Isla forgot where she belonged. And Mateo forgot that Isla was his stepdaughter.”
Isla stepped back.
I moved beside her. “She belonged with people who loved her.”
The side door opened. Ruby leaned out. “Isla? We are announcing you now.”
Isla wiped her face.
Sofia stated, “You don’t have to do this.”
Isla stared at the invitation in my hand.
“Yes,” she replied. “I do.”
Sofia turned sharply. “You are not speaking tonight.”
Isla looked at me, next at Mateo. Her hands trembled, yet her chin lifted.
“Yes, I am.”
We walked right back into the gallery as Ruby stepped to the front.
“Our next artist is Isla,” she announced carefully.
Isla stood beside the painting. Sofia lingered by the wall, stiff with anger. Mateo stood right beside me, pale and silent. Nora squeezed my hand tightly.
Isla faced the room.
“My painting is called Self-Portrait,” she began. “I know it doesn’t look like me at all. Mila was my stepsister. She died exactly three years ago.”
The gallery went quiet.
“People told me to be myself again after she died,” Isla stated. “But Mila was part of who I was. She called me Supernova when I felt small. She made me brave before I knew how to be.”
Sofia murmured softly, “Isla, stop.”
Ruby stepped directly in front of her. “Let her finish.”
Isla wiped her face. “Some people wanted me to stop saying Mila’s name because it made them uncomfortable. But grief is not bad manners. I painted her because loving her changed me. Losing her changed me too. This painting is the part of me named Mila.”
Sofia moved like she might pull Isla away, but Ruby lifted a hand.
“No,” Ruby stated calmly. “Isla told us what this painting means. The title stays with her.”
Sofia looked around, waiting for someone to rescue her from the silence.
No one did.
Then the room started clapping.
Isla broke right then, and I went to her.
“May I?”
She nodded, and I hugged her.
“I am sorry I missed her party,” she sobbed.
“You were a child,” I whispered. “The adults were supposed to be braver and smarter. And kinder.”
Mateo’s voice cracked behind me. “I let Sofia make Mila smaller because I was too much of a coward to argue in my own house.”
“Yes,” I replied. “So start fixing what can still be fixed.”
That night, Ruby changed the label to “The Part of Me Named Mila: Isla, 15.”
A week later, Mateo brought Mila’s boxes over. There were drawings, photos, and a bracelet with M + I in tiny beads.
Isla touched one photo. “She laughed right after this.”
“What happened?”
“I slipped in mud.”
“Mila 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 Isla to Mila’s grave.
“I am scared I will forget her voice,” Isla mentioned.
“Then I will tell you stories until neither of us forgets.”
“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 Mila’s name in silence.