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.

We planted two trees side by side. They are growing strong and tall, their roots digging deep into the earth, claiming their space.

Every year on their birthday, we have a picnic under the trees. We eat cupcakes. We talk about them. I tell Emma that Oliver had a serious frown when he was thinking, and Lucas had a laugh that sounded like a bird chirping. We keep them alive in the only way we can—through memory and love.

People ask me if I have closure. They ask if seeing Diane in prison brings me peace.

The truth is, there is no closure for the death of a child. There is no “moving on.” There is only moving forward. The hole in my heart is exactly the shape of two little boys, and it will never be filled.

But I am not broken.

Diane tried to destroy me. She tried to paint me as an unfit mother, to erase me from the narrative of my own family. She wanted to break me so completely that I would crumble.