“No… She knows.” — The Night My Sister Was Next to Our Father’s Body
I will never forget the night of my father’s wake. It wasn’t the tears, the flowers, or the silence that filled the room that made it so memorable. My eight-year-old sister’s actions, once everyone thought the grief was over, brought the night to life.
Lily was always the quiet one. She was the type of child who observed rather than spoke and paid attention even when she asserted otherwise. But something changed in her following Dad’s accident. It wasn’t the kind of anguish that was loud. It was quiet, almost creepy, as if she could hear something we couldn’t.
The Wake
The wake was held in the modest funeral home across the street from our house. It was a white structure with ancient carpets and too many flowers. The smell of lilies and wax hung in the air, the kind of smell that stays on your clothes for a long time after you leave.
There were candles all around Dad’s coffin in the middle of the room. His face was tranquil, almost too calm, as if someone had painted over the fear that used to be in his eyes.
The
She didn’t cry. She stayed still. She merely looked.
The grownups muttered behind their hands that she was “in shock” and that kids “don’t understand death.” But they were mistaken. Lily got it better than any of us. She was looking into it.
Mom gently told her it was time to go home when the ceremony was over and people started to leave. Lily didn’t say anything. She kept staring at Dad and running her fingers down the edge of the casket as if she were trying to remember it.
Two
At that point, I felt the night would go on as planned.
The House That Isn’t Easy
Back home, quiet sat heavy in every room. Even when no more tears flowed, Mom kept wiping her eyes. Rebecca, my stepmother, didn’t say anything. She just got herself a drink of water and looked out the window.
She had only been in our life for three years, but things had gotten tricky with Dad in the months before he died. They fought a lot, but only when no one else was around, and they did it in hushed voices that ended with broken plates or slammed drawers. I used to hear Dad say things like “This can’t go on” or “I’ll take care of it soon.”
I was mature enough at sixteen to hear fear in a man’s voice, especially my father’s.
Mom stayed in the guest room that night so she wouldn’t be alone. Rebecca went up to bed early. I helped Lily get ready for bed by putting on her pajamas. I thought she would crawl into her own bed. But she got into mine instead.
She didn’t say anything.
She lay still under the blanket, holding the picture of Dad from the wake. Her little hand held it so hard that her knuckles turned white.
“Lily,” I said in a low voice. “It’s fine to cry.”
No answer. Not even a blink. The sound of her breathing was slow, steady, and not normal.
I must have dropped off shortly after midnight, but when I woke, the bed next to me was vacant.
The bed that’s empty
The light in front of her door was on.
I pushed it open. Nothing.
Then I spotted it: the front door downstairs was slightly ajar. The smell of wet grass came in through the cool night air.
My heart started to race. I didn’t even stop to get my shoes.
As I hurried toward the funeral home across the street, the gravel crunched under my bare feet. The building was dark and quiet, except for a faint light coming from inside.
The door was open.
The Coffin Room Inside, everything was just as it had been at the wake: the flowers, the candles, and the stillness. Only suddenly, the silence felt strange.
That’s when I noticed her.
Lily was lying next to our father in the casket, with her little head resting on his chest. Her eyes were open but serene, and she was holding on to the sleeve of his coat with her fingers.
“Lily!” I mumbled and moved closer, but before I could reach her, I stopped.
There was another person in the room.
Rebecca.
She stood at the foot of the casket, shaking hands and staring at Lily.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed.
She didn’t say anything. Her face was pale, and she was having trouble breathing. Then Lily’s lips moved.
“Daddy said…” “It’s okay now,” she said quietly.
Rebecca’s face transformed; it wasn’t shock, it was terror. It was a terror that penetrated deep into her bones.
“No,” she said under her breath. “She knows,” he said.
The Admission
No one moved for a long time. The candles flickered, casting shadows on the walls that looked like they were breathing.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Rebecca looked at me, her eyes shiny. She remarked in a low voice, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” I said back. “What’s going on?”
But before she could say anything, Lily gazed up at her.
She whispered, “Daddy said you were sorry.”
Rebecca staggered back as if she had been hit. She put her palm over her mouth. “Stop,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”
Lily’s voice was so calm that it didn’t sound like her voice anymore. “He said you didn’t mean to push him.”
The room was quiet.
I could feel my throat closing. “She said what?” I asked, even though I already knew.
Rebecca started to cry, first quietly and then uncontrollably. She muttered, “It was an accident.” “We were fighting by the stairs. He grabbed my arm, and I yanked away. He fell. “I didn’t mean to—”
Her words fell silent.
I glanced at Lily. She didn’t move. Her little hand was still on Dad’s chest, but her eyes were full of something strange—neither rage nor despair. Getting it.
“It’s okay,” she said in a gentle voice. “He forgave you.”
The Day After
The police were there by sunrise.
Rebecca didn’t take back what she said. They saw the bruises on her arm that looked like Dad’s grip, the broken banister where he fell, and the security footage that showed her dragging his body into the car before calling for help.
She told the truth about everything.
They said she had freaked out and intended to make it look like a vehicle accident.
Through it all, Mom didn’t say a word. She didn’t even ask anything. She clutched Lily close and said, “It’s over now.”
But it wasn’t done yet. Not really.
What Lily Thought About
I asked Lily what had happened that night and why she went back to the funeral home weeks later, when everything had calmed down.
She stared at me for a long time before she spoke.
She answered, “Daddy wasn’t gone.” “Waiting for him.” He told me I had to assist him in telling the truth.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Did you dream it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No.” He spoke to me. “Just like he did when he put me to bed.”
I nearly believed her since her tone was so steady and matter-of-fact.
Almost.
The Burden of Knowing
Even now, years later, I still sometimes wake up remembering that night: the fragrance of flowers, the chilly air on my feet, and the sight of my sister sleeping next to our father’s body as if she belonged there.
I’ve told myself the narrative a hundred different ways. She might have heard something. She may have guessed. Maybe her anguish made her see things that weren’t there.
But then I think of Rebecca’s face: pale, shaking, and scared. She whispered those words like they were a confession she had been trying to avoid.
“No… she knows.”
I sometimes wonder if Lily ever really got over that night. She has grown up now, but she is still as quiet as ever and has a softness that seems almost otherworldly.
She doesn’t talk about Dad anymore, but every year on the anniversary of his death, she goes to the grave by herself and leaves a solitary white lily.
When I ask her why, she merely smiles and says, “He still talks to me sometimes.”
And he might.
The truth came back to life that night when she lay next to him.
And once a truth like that wakes up, it never really goes back to sleep.
