At my twins’ funeral, with their tiny coffins before me, my husband arrived beside his mistress and hissed, “God took them because He knew what kind of mother you were.”

cherry trees beside a stone bench.

Samantha handed me the latest prison letter from Silas, still unopened. — Do you want to open it? — she asked.

I held the envelope above a lantern and touched it to the flame: — No.

The paper curled into gray ash. When the wind carried it away, I sat between the young trees and listened to their leaves rustle together continue reading …