The Mother I Was Made To Be
At my twin babies’ funeral, after they died in their sleep, my mother-in-law stood over their small, white coffins and said, “God took them because He knew what kind of mother they had!”
The words hung in the air like poison gas. I had lost everything, my heart was a crater, and she was pouring salt into the void.
I snapped. The dam of grief broke, unleashing a flood of raw, desperate rage. “Can you at least shut up on this day?” I screamed, my voice cracking, tears streaming down my face.
My mother-in-law, Diane Morrison, didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, her hand connecting with my cheek in a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the silent chapel. Before I could recoil, she grabbed a handful of my hair, her fingers twisting cruelly, and slammed my forehead down onto the polished wood of my son’s coffin.
The hollow thud reverberated in my skull.
