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

The atmosphere shifted instantly. She walked to the podium with slow, measured steps, gripping the wood until her knuckles blanched. She spoke of her “precious grandbabies,” of prayers and souls and loss. It was polished, practiced grief.

Then her tone sharpened.

“These babies were innocent,” Diane said, her voice carrying 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 begins. He sees the environment they would have grown up in.”

The implication seeped into the air like poison. The soft murmurs in the pews died instantly.

“He knows what kind of influences might have shaped these boys had they lived,” Diane continued, her gaze drilling into me through the veil. “God took them because He knew what kind of mother they had. He saw the future, and He showed them mercy.”

My vision blurred red. My ears filled with the roar of blood rushing through my head.

“Can you at least shut up on this day?”

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