At my twin babies’ funeral, my mother-in-law said something so cruel the entire room fell silent. When I begged her to stop, she confronted me while my husband defended her. Then my four-year-old daughter tugged on the pastor’s robe and said, “Pastor John… should I tell everyone what Grandma put in the baby bottles?” The entire room froze.

“High levels of ethylene glycol,” she said softly. “In both boys. It confirms everything Emma said. We also found the jug in Diane’s garage, fingerprints and all. And her search history… God, Sarah. She looked up ‘dosage for infants’.”

I didn’t cry. I was past crying. I felt a cold, hard stone form in the center of my chest.

Trevor tried to call me that night. He was staying with his father, Robert. I let it go to voicemail. He left a message, sobbing, apologizing, begging to see Emma.

I deleted it. He had grabbed me. He had told me to get lost. He had chosen the murderer over the mother.

The trial date was set. And I knew, with a certainty that frightened me, that I was going to burn their entire world to the ground.

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The trial of The State vs. Diane Morrison became a national spectacle. News vans camped on my lawn. Headlines screamed about the “Granny Killer.”