At my twins’ funeral, my mother-in-law spoke words so cruel the room went completely still.

My twin sons, Oliver and Lucas, had been alive just five days earlier. They were seven months old. They had only just learned to laugh—that wet, hiccuping baby laugh that makes the world pause. Now they were gone, victims of what the coroner had tentatively labeled Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, striking twice in a single night. An impossibility on paper. A tragedy with impossible odds.

I stood in the receiving line, my legs feeling like solid stone, accepting condolences from people who wouldn’t meet my eyes. I could feel their judgment burning against my skin. How does a mother lose two babies? What did she do wrong?

My mother-in-law, Diane Morrison, stood nearby, commanding the room without effort. She was dressed head to toe in mourning black, complete with an exaggerated lace veil that hid her face but not her dramatic sobs. She dabbed at eyes that produced no tears with a monogrammed handkerchief while relatives stroked her arms, murmuring sympathy about the “burden” she now bore.