My name is Emily Carter, and there is a single moment burned into my memory so deeply that time has never softened it.
It was the day my brother-in-law arrived at my sister’s funeral with another woman wrapped around his arm.
The church in our small Texas town smelled of white lilies and furniture polish. The air felt heavy, thick with grief and whispered prayers. At the front sat my sister Lily’s closed casket, surrounded by pale flowers chosen by people who never got to say goodbye properly.
Lily was eight months pregnant when she died.
They said she fell down the stairs.
That was Jason’s story. A tragic accident. Nothing more.
I never believed it.
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