The morning of my brother’s funeral, the sky was a heavy shade of gray, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel colder. The air was still, almost too quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
I stood beside my parents at the front of the small chapel. My black coat felt too tight, my shoes pinched my feet, but I barely noticed. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Eric was gone.
The chapel was filled with people—some crying, some staring blankly ahead. My mother sat stiff in the front row, clutching a tissue she never used. Her face was expressionless, her eyes dry.
“Are you okay, Mom?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the murmurs in the room.
She nodded once, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “Fine, Lily. Just tired.”
But she wasn’t fine. Something was off. There was something in her posture, in the way she avoided my eyes, that made my stomach twist. My father leaned over and whispered something to a cousin sitting in the second row. When he noticed me watching, he quickly turned away, pretending nothing had happened.
I kept catching my parents glancing at me, then looking away just as fast, as if they were hiding something. It wasn’t just sadness. It was something else. Something deeper.
A few rows ahead, Eric’s widow, Laura, sat alone. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs as she wiped tears from her face. Real tears. Real pain. She wasn’t pretending.
When the service ended, people left in pairs or small groups. Some hugged me. Some just nodded. I barely registered any of it. I needed air. I needed space.
I stepped outside, standing under a large tree near the parking lot as the wind picked up around me. That’s when I saw Laura walking toward me, something clutched tightly in her hands.
“Lily,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need to give you this.”
I looked down as she held out an envelope. My name was written across the front in Eric’s familiar handwriting. My heart skipped a beat.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She hesitated, then took a deep breath. “He asked me to give it to you. After.”
I swallowed hard. “After what?”
She looked away, biting her lip. “After everything.”
I took the envelope with shaking hands. It felt heavier than paper should.
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
Laura shook her head. “Just that it was important.”
I didn’t open it right away. I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
The drive home was silent. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, my mind racing. I parked in front of my house but didn’t get out right away. Instead, I sat there, staring at the envelope in my lap. My name, written in Eric’s handwriting, made it feel like he was still here, like opening it would bring him back.
Memories of him flooded my mind. Eric had never been the affectionate type. No hugs, no long talks. He never called just to say hi. But he was always there. Always.
At my high school graduation, he sat in the front row, hands folded, watching silently. When I was in the hospital at sixteen with the flu, he sat by my bed for hours, saying nothing, just being there. He was like a shadow—always close but never too close.
Sometimes, I thought he wanted to say something, something important. He’d open his mouth, then close it again. And now, he never would.
I finally stepped inside my house and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope one last time. Then, taking a deep breath, I broke the seal.
The paper inside was folded once. It smelled faintly like Eric—old books and cologne. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
My dearest Lily,
There’s no easy way to write this. I’ve started and stopped this letter more times than I can count. If you’re reading this, it means I never found the courage to say it to your face. And for that, I’m sorry.
Lily… I’m not just your brother. I’m your father.
The words blurred before my eyes. My heart plummeted. My stomach twisted in knots.
I was fifteen. Young. Stupid. I fell in love with someone who got scared when she found out she was pregnant. She wanted to leave, to run. Our parents stepped in. They said they would raise you as their own—that I could be your brother. It was supposed to protect you.
But I never stopped being your dad. Not for a single day.
Tears streamed down my face as I kept reading.
I wanted to tell you. Every birthday. Every time you smiled. Every school play. I wanted to say, ‘That’s my girl.’ But I couldn’t. Because I was just a boy pretending to be something I wasn’t.
I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough. You deserved more than silence. You deserved the truth.
I love you, Lily. Always.
Love, Dad.
The word ‘Dad’ hit me like a tidal wave. I dropped the letter and pressed my hands over my mouth. A choked sob escaped me. I couldn’t breathe. My whole life had just shifted in the space of one page.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
By morning, I knew what I had to do. I drove straight to Laura’s house. She opened the door, her eyes red and swollen.
“You read it,” she whispered.
I nodded. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside. We sat in silence for a long time before she finally spoke.
“I didn’t know until after we got married. One night, he had a bad dream. He woke up shaking. I asked what was wrong, and he told me everything.”
“Why didn’t he ever tell me?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“He wanted to. So many times. But he was scared. Scared you’d hate him. Scared it would break your heart.”
I clenched my fists. “It all makes sense now. The distance. The way he loved me but always held something back.”
“He loved you more than anything, Lily,” Laura whispered. “That letter tore him apart. But he made me promise—if anything happened to him, I had to give it to you.”
I had one last stop to make.
I parked outside the house I grew up in. It looked the same, but now it felt different—like a house built on secrets. My mother opened the door, her smile faltering when she saw my face.
“We need to talk,” I said.
She stepped aside, silent. My father was in the kitchen, sipping coffee. He looked up, startled.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice was sharp. “Why did you lie?”
They exchanged a guilty glance. My mother’s hands trembled as she whispered, “We thought it was best for you.”
“For me? Or for you?”
She wiped her eyes. “We were scared.”
“Well, now I don’t know who I am anymore.” I took a deep breath. “And I don’t know how to forgive you.”
My father’s voice was soft. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be here.”
That night, I framed the letter and placed it in the center of my bookshelf—where I could see it every day.
Because now, at least, I knew the truth.
