The first time I wanted re:venge, I was standing between two coffins small enough to carry in my arms. The second time, my mother-in-law’s handprint was still burning across my face.

The chapel smelled like lilies, rain, and polished wood. My twins, Noah and Lily, rested inside white caskets no bigger than travel cases, their names etched in gold lettering that looked far too bright for children who were gone.

I hadn’t slept in four days. My black dress hung loose against my body. Every breath felt jagged.

Beside me, my husband Daniel stared at the floor as though grief had hollowed him out. On my other side stood his mother, Margaret, rigid beneath a black veil, dry-eyed and perfectly composed like royalty attending tragedy.

People whispered about how strong she was.

I knew better.

She leaned toward me, her perfume thick enough to choke. “God took them,” she whispered viciously, “because He knew what kind of mother you were.”

The words entered me like shards of glass.

I turned slowly toward her. “Can you shut up—just for today?”

The chapel fell silent.

Margaret’s expression hardened instantly. Then she slapped me.

Hard.

My head snapped sideways. Before I could steady myself, she seized my arm and slammed me into Noah’s coffin. My temple struck the polished wood edge. Somewhere in the back, someone screamed.

Margaret bent toward my ear, smiling politely for the mourners. “Stay quiet,” she whispered, “or you’ll join them.”

Daniel finally lifted his head.

Not toward her.

Toward me.

“Enough, Claire,” he said flatly. “Don’t make a scene.”