**Diary Entry**
I should have been relieved when we finally pulled into the driveway after our weekend in the Lake District. It was the first time in years that James and I had taken a proper break without the children. Wed left our little ones, Sophie (6) and Oliver (4), with my mother, Margareta 68-year-old retired midwife whod always doted on them.
Id had doubts. Lately, Mum had been forgetfullosing her glasses, retelling old storiesbut I shrugged it off. Shed spent decades caring for newborns; surely she could handle two lively grandchildren. Youre overthinking it, James had said. Your mum adores them. Theyll be fine.
The moment I stepped inside, the silence hit me. No excited shouts, no tiny footsteps. Just cold stillness. My stomach twisted. I dropped my bag and rushed to the living room.
Then I saw them. Sophie and Oliver lay on the sofa, still as dolls, their faces ghostly pale. I screamed, falling to my knees, shaking them. Wake up! Please! My voice shattered the quiet. James ran in behind me, freezing at the sight. Sarahcall 999!
The paramedics arrived swiftly, but it was too late. Both were gone. The world collapsed around me. Amid the chaos, I spotted Mum at the kitchen table, sipping tea, her hands trembling.
I stormed over. Mum, what happened?
She looked up, her eyes cloudy. They wouldnt settle I gave them some of my sleeping tablets. Just a pinch in their juice. I thought it would help.
Rage and horror tore through me. You killed them!
The police investigation confirmed the worstSophie and Oliver had overdosed on Mums insomnia medication. Shed crushed the pills, not realising how lethal even a small dose could be for children.
In questioning, Mum kept repeating, I never meant to hurt them. I loved them so much. They just wouldnt stop crying
To James and me, her words were salt in an open wound. The Crown Prosecution Service charged her with involuntary manslaughter. Her age and memory lapses complicated thingssome doctors suspected early dementia.
The trial was unbearable. I clutched a photo of Sophie and Oliver, my tears endless. Jamess grip on my hand was the only thing keeping me grounded.
Mums barrister argued shed acted without malice, just poor judgment. The prosecution called it gross negligence. Neighbours testified about her recent confusionleaving the kettle boiling, wandering lost down the street.
The jury found her guilty. Five years in a care facility, given her condition. My heart broke all over againnot just for my children, but for the woman whod once been my rock.
Afterwards, our home felt like a mausoleum. Sophies drawings still hung on the fridge; Olivers toy cars littered the floor. I couldnt bring myself to go near their rooms.
The guilt gnawed at me. Why had I ignored my instincts? Why had I trusted her? James and I tried counselling, but grief wedged between us. Some days, we blamed each otherme for suggesting the trip, him for reassuring me.
The village held a vigil. Dozens came with candles and kind words, but nothing could fill the void.
Mum writes from the facility, pages of apologies and regrets. I see their faces every night, she says. I cant bring myself to read them.
Now, standing by their graves in the churchyard, I whisper, I thought she loved you. I thought you were safe.
The irony claws at me. Id trusted her above anyone. And that trust cost everything.
The story made headlines, sparking debates about elderly care and dementia. But for me, its not a debate. Its my life, shattered.
And every night, when I close my eyes, I hear Sophies laughter and Olivers gigglesghosts of the future they should have had.
