They were twelve regular people from Chicago.

I told them about my mother’s obsession with our baby.

I told them about the night she brought the crib.

I told them how Megan grew weaker every day.

The defense attorney stood up to cross-examine me.

He was a tall man with a loud voice.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Miller, that you have always resented your mother?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“I loved my mother.”

“But she tried to destroy my family.”

“You have no proof she put anything in the tea,” he said.

“We have her fingerprints on the tin,” I said.

“And we have her medical records showing she filled her digitalis prescription early.”

The attorney sat down.

The next day, Megan testified.

She was nervous, her voice trembling as she spoke.

But she looked directly at my mother when she described the pain.

“She told me she was helping me,” Megan said.

“She told me I was a bad mother.”

“She made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

My mother did not flinch.

She kept her face expressionless, her hands folded in her lap.