The next morning, the sun rose bright and cheerful, completely ignorant of the nightmare we had just survived. I cooked pancakes just like I do every Sunday. Lily came into the kitchen, rubbing her sleepy eyes, looking for her crayons.

I sat down next to her at the table, pulled the construction paper drawing of the yellow car toward me, and took a deep, shaky breath.

It was time to stop protecting her with pretty lies. It was time to deal with the ugly truth, no matter how much it hurt. “Lily,” I started, reaching out to hold her small, warm hand in mine. “We need to talk about heaven.”