The air inside the small Texas church was heavy, thick with the overpowering, sickeningly sweet scent of white lilies and the muted, wet sounds of hushed weeping. At the very front of the sanctuary, beneath a stained-glass window depicting a weeping angel, rested a closed mahogany casket. Inside lay my older sister, Lily, and the unborn baby boy she had already lovingly named Noah. She had been exactly thirty-two weeks pregnant when she supposedly “fell” down the steep hardwood stairs of her grand suburban home.

That was Jason’s story. A tragic, unavoidable accident caused by a dizzy spell.