My name is Emily Carter, and there is one moment in my life that time has never softened, no matter how many years pass or how much distance I try to place between myself and that day. It was the morning of my sister Lily’s funeral, a gray, humid morning in our small Texas town where the air felt thick with grief and unanswered questions. The church was filled with white lilies and hushed whispers, their sweet scent mixing with the sharp sting of incense and sorrow. At the front rested Lily’s closed casket, polished and pristine, hiding the truth of what she had endured. She had been eight months pregnant, glowing with anticipation just weeks before she died.

Jason, her husband, had told everyone she slipped and fell down the stairs. A tragic accident, he said. A terrible twist of fate. But from the moment he spoke those words, something inside me rebelled against them. Lily had always been careful, especially in her pregnancy. She held stair railings, walked slowly, laughed when we teased her for being overly cautious. She was planning baby showers, painting tiny blue clouds on nursery walls, folding miniature clothes with trembling hands.