He planned it.
He knew my mother’s weaknesses—her sleepwalking, her mental health struggles—and turned them into weapons.
He didn’t just commit murder.
He built a story the world was ready to believe.
And we all believed it.
Even me.
I saw him one last time before they took him away.
He sat in a gray room, smaller than I remembered, but still carrying that same bitterness.
“Why?” I asked.
