The morning my twins were laid to rest arrived under a sky weighed down by clouds, as though the world itself had chosen to grieve with me.

Two small white coffins rested before the altar, so impossibly small that my mind refused to accept they were real. My name is Lucía Herrera, and I still could not comprehend that my sons—Mateo and Daniel—were gone. Only three weeks earlier, I had felt their movements inside me. Now there was only an unbearable void where life had been.

People surrounded me with hushed condolences that slid past without meaning. My husband, Álvaro, stood at my side, stiff and distant, his eyes unfocused. Since the babies had died during childbirth, he seemed hollowed out, as if sorrow had emptied him entirely. I felt the opposite—every emotion struck me with full force, sharp and relentless.

Then I felt a breath warm against my ear.

It was Carmen, my mother-in-law. She leaned closer, her lips curling into a twisted smile, and whispered with quiet cruelty,

“God took them because He knew what kind of mother you were.”

Something shattered inside me. The tears I had been restraining spilled over, and before I could stop myself, the words escaped my mouth,

“Please… can you be silent—just today?”

The church went utterly still. Carmen’s eyes burned with rage. In an instant, her hand lashed out. The sound of the slap echoed through the sanctuary. Before I could regain my balance, she shoved me forward, and my forehead struck the coffin of one of my sons. Pain exploded through my head, mixing violently with grief until the world began to spin.

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