I know what it is like to only know a family member by photographs. My father died when I was just a baby and for most of my life all I ever saw of him was the portrait my mother gave him as a wedding present. Every baby picture of me had a mystery hand coming in from the side; identified as my father's, always ready to catch me if I fell.

The great irony to me was that my stepfather, who I hated, looked so much like my father. My stepfather couldn't stand any mention of my father and most of his belongings were banished to a big green chest that was kept out in the barn. Until the past two years, that was really the only connection I had to my father.

If it were me, I don't think I could have given up the paintings, but the decision was yours and as painful as it is now, I hope it's the right one.