People still called me strong.
They were wrong.
I wasn’t strong because I survived what they did to me.
I was strong because when they tried to turn my grief into a weapon, I sharpened the truth instead.
And I made sure it cut all the way back.
At my twin babies’ funeral, as their tiny coffins lay before me, my mother-in-law leaned close and hissed, “God took them because He knew what kind of mother you were.” I snapped, sobbing, “Can you shut up-just for today?” That’s when she slapped me,
