At our father’s wake, eight-year-old Lily stood beside his coffin all day—silent, motionless, and distant. We thought she was just grieving in her own quiet way. But that night, when she slipped away from home and lay down beside his coffin, everything changed.
The Wake
The room was filled with the heavy scent of lilies and the soft murmur of prayers. My little sister didn’t cry or blink—she just stared at our father’s still face, waiting, maybe hoping he’d breathe again.
People whispered that she didn’t understand what was happening. But I knew Lily—she understood more than anyone realized.
When the wake ended, everyone slowly left. Lily refused to go. It took two relatives to lift her away from the casket. She didn’t fight or scream—she just kept looking back, like she was leaving a piece of herself behind.
The Midnight Visit
That night, I woke up to find her bed empty. The front door was wide open. Cold air swept through the hallway.
I ran barefoot to the funeral home across the street. The door was unlocked. Inside, candlelight flickered around the coffin.
And there—lying beside our father—was Lily, her small hand resting on his sleeve.
Before I could move, I saw her whispering something to him. Behind the casket stood Rebecca, our stepmother—pale, trembling, and out of place.
When Lily’s lips moved again, Rebecca whispered, almost to herself, “No… she knows.”
A Terrible Truth
The next morning, I couldn’t forget it. I searched the garage where Dad used to work and found a repair receipt—dated two days before the accident. It showed that he’d replaced the brakes on his car. Paid in full. Signed by him.
When I showed Rebecca the paper, her face drained of color.
“He said he was leaving me,” she finally confessed, shaking. “Taking you and Lily. I just wanted to stop him from going. I loosened one bolt… just one. I didn’t mean for him to die.”
I felt my knees weaken. She fell to the floor, sobbing, but the truth was already out.
From the doorway, Lily was watching. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. She had known all along.
The Confession
Days passed in silence. Then Lily came to my room, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
“Dad told me something,” she whispered. “He said, ‘Protect your sister.’”
That’s when she told me everything—how she had seen Rebecca in the garage the night before the crash, turning something under the hood while Dad shouted at her to stop.
She had carried that secret for weeks, trying to protect me from more pain.
Justice and Peace
The next morning, I handed Rebecca a folded note: Dad’s receipt and Lily’s drawing—a car, a woman with a wrench, and a crying little girl in the corner.
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“You’re going to the police, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You can come with us. Tell them the truth.”
An hour later, she turned herself in.
Lily and I now live with our aunt in a quiet town far from the city. At night, I still hear her whispering to Dad in her sleep, little words of comfort and love. But she smiles now—free from secrets, free from fear.
Dad’s last words to her were “Protect your sister.”
And she did.
She protected me.
And in the end, she set us both free.
