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.