And as I stepped back to look at the finished painting, I understood something at last: my life could no longer be reduced to the night I was thrown into the storm. That night scarred me. It stole years from me. But in a terrible, strange way, it also led me to the paper that gave me my name back.
I had once been Willow among the trash, a girl raised to believe she was worth less than a bowl of soup.
But before that, I had been Lila.
And after everything, I became Lila again.
Not the lost girl on the flyer.
Not the mute child in the hospital.
Not the frightened girl waiting to be returned.
But Lila whole—daughter, artist, survivor, woman.
And no one would ever throw me back into the storm again.
