The MOMENT She Stopped Texting Everything Changed | Lilly and Jack Sullivan
Every day when I wake up, it just feels like I’m reliving the nightmare of May 2nd.
But the main feeling—it’s sadness… and it’s just turned to anger, because there’s no evidence at all, even after one month.
It’s really taken a toll.

And the next thing we knew, the room… it was quiet.
We get up, and I tell him—my partner, Daniel—I tell him,
“Do you hear the kids?”
And he says, “No.”
And we get up instantly. We’re looking outside, we’re looking everywhere, yelling for them.
And I just instantly call 911.
I just had the instinct—I needed to call.

They’re both really good, lucky children. They’re so sweet. They talk to anyone—they’ll talk your ear off.
They’ll speak to anyone in a store, everyone.

It began on a quiet morning in early May, in a stretch of Nova Scotia where the forest never seems to give up its secrets.

Two children—Lily, just 6 years old, and her little brother Jack, only 4—vanished without a sound.

The children lived on a remote, rural property in Nova Scotia.
To call it a home might be generous.
Observers described the setting as squalid and unsafe: makeshift fencing barely containing the chaos of discarded debris, a yard scattered with broken furniture, broken toys, and broken promises.

There was no playground here.
Only patches of uncut grass, ATV tire marks in the dirt, and shadows that stretched longer than they should.

And yet, within this place were signs of material comfort—four-wheelers, expensive watches—a striking contrast to the children, often unkempt, sometimes dirty, always barefoot in memory.

In that house were five people:
Maleahya Brooks Murray, the children’s mother.
Her partner, Daniel Martell—who had no legal rights to the children but held a presence in the home strong enough to be noted, divisive enough to raise questions.
A 17-month-old baby also lived with them—too young to speak, but old enough to witness.

The children’s biological father, Cody, was not in the picture.
But his mother—the children’s paternal grandmother—was.
And it’s through her that we learned about the most important communications in the first 48 hours after the children disappeared:
text messages, allegedly exchanged between this grandmother and Maleahya.

These texts began circulating online, shared first by the YouTube channel It’s a Cringey Shame.
These texts have not been officially verified, and we urge viewers to take them with appropriate skepticism.
What you choose to believe is your decision.

Our goal here is not to accuse or condemn, but to analyze the language, the behavior, the logic—and perhaps the gaps between them.

Because sometimes, in those gaps, a story begins to take shape.

Here at True Crime Stories Hour, we make no judgments. We dissect behavior, not humanity.
We don’t claim to know the truth.
But we ask the questions that must be asked.
And we pray—always—that those questions lead us somewhere real.
Somewhere resolvable.

Because at the heart of this case are two children.
Not just names. Not just photos on a missing poster.
Lily and Jack—siblings who loved to play.
Who might still be out there, waiting.

If this video resonates with you—
If you believe that truth deserves light—
Please consider liking, sharing, and subscribing.

Your support helps us bring daily analysis to those who still hope.
Because every view, every click, every voice raised in awareness matters.

Let’s keep their names alive—
Until the silence breaks, and the forest speaks.

Timeline of May 2nd:

At approximately 6:00 a.m., their mother, Maleahya Brooks Murray, reportedly contacted the school’s automated system to excuse her children’s absence.
The reason? They were home sick.

A minor, routine action—unless you know what came next.

By 9:00 a.m., Maleahya would later claim Lily and Jack had vanished.

The time gap is striking: over three hours between calling the school and realizing they were gone.
What happened during that window remains one of the case’s many unanswered questions.

According to the version of events Maleahya shared later that day, the children must have slipped out the back door—a door she emphasized makes no sound when opened.

Her exact words: “We can’t hear that door.”

It’s a curious detail to stress.
Most grieving parents focus on what they did—not what they couldn’t hear.

This statement feels less like an explanation and more like a defense.

In linguistic terms, it’s called overjustification—providing excess reasoning before blame is even suggested.
It shifts focus away from a lack of supervision, and onto a household flaw.
As if the fault lies in the silence of hinges rather than in vigilance.

Later that day, at 1:46 p.m., the children’s paternal grandmother reached out via text.
She hadn’t heard from anyone.
She didn’t know what was happening.
Her questions were simple:

—Had there been any news?
—Were the kids even supposed to go to school?

Maleahya responded:
“They were sick. They got out the back door.”

That’s all.

But that wasn’t all.

She added that the children liked to explore the woods “under supervision.”

The phrase “under supervision” stood out immediately to behavioral analysts.
It’s the kind of qualifier that feels unnatural in casual conversation.
Parents don’t usually say “My kids like to eat ice cream under supervision.”
Or “They love cartoons under supervision.”

When a parent adds a protective disclaimer like this—especially when the children are already missing—it often signals something deeper:
overcompensation,
a need to reassure not just the listener, but themselves.

And then came a chilling line:

“I never thought they’d run off like that.”

Not “I lost them.”
Not “They disappeared.”
But “They ran off.”

The phrase shifts responsibility—almost imperceptibly—from the caregiver to the children.
It frames the event not as a tragic lapse in oversight, but as an act of will by two very young kids—just 6 and 4.

It introduces the idea that they chose this.
That they slipped past her while she wasn’t looking—out of mischief or curiosity.
Rather than from circumstance or danger.

In forensic behavioral analysis, such phrasing carries weight.

Truthful language often centers on the parent’s actions or failures:
“I looked away for a second.”
Or “I didn’t see them leave.”

But here, Maleahya’s choice of words paints the children as the agents of their own disappearance.