A trained interviewer asked gentle questions in a room with stuffed animals.
Emma explained the pills in her small voice.
“Grandma said they make the bad come out quiet.”
“What bad?” the interviewer asked.
“When I cry. When I run. When Mommy hugs me too much.”
That line cut me in half.
When Mommy hugs me too much.
Diane had not only wanted Emma quiet.
She had wanted my comfort to look like a problem.
She had wanted my love itself to become suspicious.
The prosecution presented the bottle.
The medical records.
The toxicology report.
The notebook.
The CPS call trace.
The articles found under Diane’s cardigans.
The applesauce pouch.
The pill cutter.
My testimony came on the third day.
I thought I would be afraid.
I wasn’t.
I was cold.
The kind of cold that forms after fire burns everything soft away.
The prosecutor asked me to describe Emma before Diane moved in.
I said:
“She was loud. Funny. Stubborn. She danced when commercials came on. She asked questions until my head hurt. She hated socks. She loved strawberries. She laughed with her whole body.”
Then she asked me to describe Emma after.
“She slept. She stared. She stopped asking for things. She stopped arguing. Diane called that improvement.”
The jury listened.
Some wrote notes.
One woman wiped her eyes.
Diane stared at me the entire time.
Not remorsefully.
Not shamefully.
With rage.
Her lawyer tried to paint me as overwhelmed.
“Isn’t it true you complained about Emma’s tantrums?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true you were exhausted?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true Diane often helped because you needed breaks?”
“Yes.”
