My mom was sentenced to die for killing my dad, and for six years

The silence in the execution chamber wasn’t just quiet; it was heavy, like the air before a massive storm. Uncle Ray’s face, usually a mask of rehearsed grief and stoic support, was disintegrating. The tan he’d maintained from his frequent “business trips” to the coast—trips paid for by my father’s life insurance—had turned a sickly, curdled gray.

“The boy is traumatized,” Ray stammered, his voice cracking like dry wood. “He’s been through a tragedy. He’s making up stories to cope!”