“You blamed me,” I said quietly. “At my children’s funeral.”

The murmurs grew louder. People shifted in their seats. Someone stood, then sat back down. June walked over and slipped her hand into mine, squeezing it—grounding me, as if she were the one offering comfort.

“I saw her,” June went on, her small voice cutting through the noise. “She told Mommy not to use those bottles anymore, but Grandma said she knew better.”

Aaron gasped softly, his grip tightening on my arm.

Pastor Reynolds raised his hand. “I believe this requires contacting the authorities.”

Margaret’s control finally shattered. “Over a child’s imagination?” she demanded.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a sealed evidence pouch. I hadn’t intended to bring it, but some instinct wouldn’t let me leave it behind. Inside were two baby bottles we had discovered weeks after the twins died, hidden in the back of a cabinet—bottles I didn’t recognize, bottles Margaret had always insisted on preparing herself.

“We had them tested,” I said, my voice breaking but clear. “We just didn’t want to accept it.”

Aaron’s voice cracked. “I should’ve listened. I should’ve protected them.”

The police arrived quietly and respectfully. Statements were taken. Margaret cried, protested, denied everything—but the truth unraveled faster than she could stop it. Neighbors remembered her insistence on feeding the twins alone. Relatives recalled her remarks about my supposed incompetence, my lack of experience.

June stayed on my lap the entire time, tracing small circles on my hand, keeping me anchored in the moment.