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.

Pastor John began the service. His voice was a drone, speaking of God’s plan and heaven’s newest angels. Each word felt like a serrated knife dragging across my skin. My four-year-old daughter, Emma, sat beside me. She was swinging her legs nervously, picking at the hem of her scratchy black dress. She had been at Diane’s house that night, too. She was the only survivor of the sleepover.

Then, Diane stood up to give the eulogy.

The air in the room shifted. She approached the podium with slow, deliberate steps, gripping the wood until her knuckles turned white. She began by speaking about her “precious grandbabies” and how she had prayed for their souls. It was standard, performative grief.

But then, her tone changed. It grew sharp. Calculated.

“These babies were innocent,” Diane said, her voice projecting clearly to the back of the room. “Pure. Untouched by the sin of this world. Sometimes… sometimes God takes the innocent to spare them from what lies ahead. He sees the rot before it sets in. He sees the environment they would be raised in.”