Two pages from my father.
Jade, I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I need to say it. I was wrong. I chose the wrong things. I convinced myself Brandon’s success mattered more because it was visible. Your grief, I couldn’t see it. I’m sorry. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it, but I want you to know I see it now. I see what we did to you. Your mother is struggling. She won’t say it, but she cries at night. She knows. We both do. I’m proud of your book. I’m proud of the foundation. And I’m ashamed I wasn’t there for Lily or for you. I love you. I always have. I just showed it badly. Dad.
I read it three times.
I didn’t cry.
I folded the letter and placed it in a drawer.
I didn’t respond. Not then. Maybe not ever.
But I kept it.
That night, I opened my journal.
Entry 287.
Dad wrote. He apologized. It doesn’t undo anything, but it matters. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive them. I don’t even know what forgiveness looks like here. But I know this: I don’t need their validation anymore. I have Lily’s memory. I have my work. I have my voice. That’s enough.
On February 9, 2025, eight months since Lily died, the permanent headstone was ready.
I went to the cemetery that morning. Sophie came with me.
The stone was simple. White marble. Clean. Quiet.
It read:
Lily May Sinclair
April 18, 2024 – May 30, 2024
“You are my sunshine”
Forever loved, forever remembered.
I placed yellow roses on the ground, the same color as the little ducks on her onesie.
I sat there for a while. Didn’t cry. Just talked to her.
“I kept my promise, baby. The world knows you now. They won’t forget.”
My life had changed.
In January, I was promoted to Director of Crisis Services. More responsibility. A higher salary. A different kind of weight.
I moved into a new apartment. One bedroom. Natural light. Plants. No crib. Nothing that would pull me back into that moment.
I started dating again, slowly. I met Adrien Lopez, an architect, through a friend. Coffee. Conversations. No pressure. Just steady.
My family stayed distant. I acknowledged my father’s letter, but I didn’t reply. My mother hadn’t reached out again. Brandon was silent. Natalie texted occasionally, polite and careful.
I had a book tour scheduled for February through March. Eight cities. Talking about grief, about family, about what it means when the people who are supposed to stand beside you don’t.
I stood at Lily’s grave one last time before leaving. Looked at the headstone, and for the first time, I felt peace.
Not because everything had been fixed, but because I no longer needed it to be.
Lily was gone, but her story was still here. In the book. In the foundation. In the thousands of people who had read her name.
That was enough.
Six months later, August 2025, fourteen months since Lily died, I was at the foundation office meeting with our eighteenth family, a young couple. They had lost twins, stillborn at thirty-six weeks.
I listened. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush. Just stayed present.
When we finished, Sarah hugged me. “Thank you. No one else understood.”
“I do,” I said. “And you’re not alone.”
That night, I went home.
Adrien had made dinner. We ate. Talked. It felt normal. Peaceful.
My phone buzzed. A message from Victoria.
Book just passed 200,000 copies. Also, Netflix is asking about film rights. Interested?
I smiled and typed back: Let’s talk.
Before bed, I opened my journal.
Another entry.
Day 434. Without Lily, but not without purpose. Her story is helping people. The foundation is growing. I’m okay. Not healed, but okay. And that’s more than I thought possible.
I closed the laptop, looked at the photo on my nightstand, the only one I had, her ultrasound at twenty weeks.
“Good night, sunshine,” I whispered.
I turned off the light.
My family once said Lily was just a baby, that she wouldn’t remember if they were there. They were right about one thing. Lily doesn’t remember.
But I do.
The world does.
