The first moment I craved revenge, I stood between two tiny coffins light enough for me to carry alone. The second came while the sting of my mother-in-law’s slap still burned across my face.
The church smelled of roses, rain-soaked wood, and candle wax. My twins, Ethan and Ava, rested inside white caskets no bigger than travel cases, their names engraved in shimmering gold that looked far too bright for children who should still have been alive.
I hadn’t slept in nearly a week. My black dress hung loosely against my thin frame. Even breathing hurt.
Beside me, my husband Ryan stared blankly at the floor as though sorrow had hollowed him out completely. On my other side stood his mother, Evelyn, dressed in black with a lace veil, composed and dry-eyed like grief itself answered to her.
Everyone whispered about how strong she was.
They had no idea.
She leaned close enough for her perfume to suffocate me. “God took them,” she whispered viciously, “because He knew what kind of mother you were.”
Her words sliced through me.
I turned toward her slowly. “Can you stop talking… just for one day?”
The entire chapel seemed to freeze.
Evelyn’s expression hardened instantly. Then her hand struck my face.
Hard.
