The morning of my brother’s funeral, the sky was heavy with thick gray clouds. The kind of gray that makes everything feel colder, heavier, like the world itself was mourning. The air was still, the silence pressing down on me as I stood near the front of the small chapel with my parents. My black coat felt too tight across my shoulders. My shoes pinched at my feet. But none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except one thing—Eric was gone.
People filled the chapel, their faces heavy with grief. Some sobbed quietly into tissues. Others sat motionless, their eyes locked on a distant point, lost in thought. My mother sat beside me, her back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap. She clutched a tissue, but she never used it. Her eyes remained dry, her face unreadable.
I leaned in and whispered, “Mom, are you okay?”
She gave a small nod but didn’t meet my gaze. “I’m fine, Lily. Just tired.”
She wasn’t fine. Something about her felt distant, off. Like she was holding something back.
My dad, sitting beside her, leaned forward, whispering something to my cousin in the second row. When he noticed me watching, he quickly turned away. My stomach twisted.
Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t just grief. There was something else. I kept catching them looking at me, my mother, my father, and then looking away just as quickly. Like they were hiding something.
A few rows ahead, Eric’s widow, Laura, sat alone. Her shoulders shook as she wiped tears from her face. Real tears. Real pain. She wasn’t pretending.
When the service ended, people left in pairs and small groups. Some hugged me, some only offered sad nods before slipping out the doors. Their voices faded as I stepped outside, letting the cold wind hit my face. I needed air. I needed space.
I stood beneath a tree near the parking lot, arms wrapped around myself, when I noticed Laura walking toward me. Her eyes were red and swollen, and in her hands, she held something—an envelope.
“Lily,” she said, her voice rough and shaky. “I need to give you this.”
I frowned. “What is it?”
She extended the envelope. My name was written on the front in Eric’s handwriting.
“He asked me to give it to you. After.”
My hands trembled as I took it. The paper felt strangely heavy, like it carried more than just words.
“After what?” I asked.
She hesitated, looking away. “After everything.”
“Did he… say anything else?” My voice was barely a whisper.
She shook her head. “No. Just that it was important.”
I stared at the envelope, my chest tight. It felt too soon, too heavy to open. I wasn’t ready.
I drove home in silence. Once parked, I sat for a long time, staring at the envelope in my lap. My name in Eric’s handwriting looked so normal, so familiar. Like he was still here. Like if I opened it, he’d be speaking to me.
But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Memories flooded my mind. Eric was never the warm, affectionate type. No random hugs. No long heart-to-heart talks. He never called just to check in.
But he always showed up.
He sat in the front row at my high school graduation, silent, hands folded.
When I was sixteen and sick in the hospital, he was there. Just sitting. Not saying much. But he stayed.
He was like a shadow—always there, but never too close.
And sometimes, I had felt it. Like he wanted to say something but never did. Like there was something locked inside him, just waiting to be spoken.
Now he never would.
I walked into my house, sat at the kitchen table, and finally, with shaking hands, I broke the seal of the envelope.
The paper inside was folded neatly, carrying a faint scent of old books and Eric’s cologne. My fingers trembled as I opened 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 it, then I never found the courage to say this to your face. And I’m sorry for that.
Lily… I’m not just your brother. I’m your father.
My breath caught. The words blurred as my heart pounded. My stomach twisted, and I had to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
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’d raise you as their own—and that I could be your brother. It was supposed to protect you.
But I never stopped being your dad. Not for a single day.
I wanted to tell you every time you smiled. Every birthday. Every school play. I wanted to say, “That’s my girl.” But I didn’t. Because I was a boy pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave. 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 covered my mouth, a sob ripping through my chest. Tears ran down my face, hot and fast. My whole life—everything I thought I knew—had just changed in the space of one page.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
The next morning, I drove straight to Laura’s house. She opened the door slowly, her eyes just as swollen as mine.
“You read it,” she whispered.
I nodded. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside, and we sat in her living room in silence.
“I didn’t know until after we got married,” she finally said. “He told me one night after a bad dream. He was shaking. I asked what was wrong, and he told me everything.”
I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t he ever tell me?”
“Because he was scared,” she said. “Scared it would break your heart. Scared you’d hate him.”
“It makes sense now,” I murmured. “The way he loved me—quiet, distant, but always there.”
She reached for my hand. “He loved you more than anything, Lily. That letter—it tore him apart. But he made me promise that if anything ever happened to him, I had to give it to you.”
Tears slid down my face. “I wish he told me sooner.”
“So did he.”
That evening, I went to my parents’ house. My mother opened the door, her smile dropping when she saw my face.
“Lily?”
“We need to talk.”
Inside, my father sat at the kitchen table, his coffee cup shaking slightly in his grip.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracked. “Why did you lie to me my whole life?”
They exchanged a guilty look. My mother’s hands trembled. “We were trying to protect you.”
“From what? My own father?”
She swallowed hard. “We thought it would be easier.”
“For who? Me? Or you?”
Silence.
I pressed the letter to my chest. “I don’t know how to forgive you.”
My father’s voice was hoarse. “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.
Right where I could see it every day.