My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.
Instead, he gripped me tightly, his face twisted with anger, and shouted for me to leave—that I was causing a scene, that I was making everything worse.
Worse.
As if I were the one responsible.
As if my head hadn’t just hit the wood where one of my babies lay.
