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The year Sophie was born was filled with joy for our family.
My parents told me, as the older sister, to treat Sophie as precious as the apple of my
eye.
Ever since I was a child, I would let her have the best of everything, placing her needs above my own life.
Sophie relied on me heavily, always saying I was the most important person in her world.
So when she accidentally knocked over a candle and set the house on fire, she sobbed, begging me not to reveal the truth.
At fifteen, I carried my ten–year–old sister out of the blazing house, my legs scorched by the flames.
I thought I had done something heroic, but we were unaware that our mother, who had
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just come home from a night shift, was
asleep in the bedroom.
My mother perished in the fire.
It wasn’t until after the firefighters extinguished the flames that they
discovered her charred remains.
When Dad learned what happened, he broke down and blamed me entirely.
“It’s all your fault! How could we have raised a daughter who would bring such tragedy? You’ve killed your own mother!”
I was left defenseless, with only my tears to speak for me.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t my fault, that Sophie was the one who had lit the candle.
But I had promised Sophie I would keep her secret, especially as she was hospitalized with severe trauma from the
fire.
I couldn’t say a word, could express
nothing.
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In the pouring rain, Dad left me behind, as
if I were nothing more than a stray dog.
Eventually, Tony couldn’t stand by and watch; he took me in.
I was barred from attending my mother’s funeral and was not allowed to say goodbye.
I bowed deeply towards the direction of the crematorium until my forehead bled.
know I failed my mother and my father.
And after the funeral, Sophie hugged me.
“Thank you for not ruining my life,” she whispered.
She also cautioned me, “The incident is in the past now. Don’t ever bring it up with Dad. Keep to the story as we’ve told it.”
