After all the skeletons that have come out about the Menéndez brothers’ case, a case I learned about years ago, I had already formed my opinion—I believed them from the start. I thought it was one of the most unfair trials I’d ever seen. It depressed me for days, but I eventually moved on. Years passed, I became a mother, and when the case resurfaced—along with Ryan Murphy’s ridiculous Hollywood version—I decided to take a deeper look, thinking I could handle it. I’ve spent years studying child abuse to protect my kids, knowing most predators are within the family.

But as I watched the trial on YouTube, I began to feel deeply sad all over again. I see this case through a mother’s eyes now, and it’s broken me in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve been crying for days, imagining the horrors they went through. A dear friend once told me, 'you’ve got to let the feelings run their course,' and I’m accepting that there’s nothing I can do to change what happened. I can’t help them, it’s in the past. I understand they’re adults now who hopefully have found some peace.

What truly breaks me is knowing that, when their parents died, their emotional maturity was that of an 8- to 10-year-old—just like my own children. That’s what trauma does to victims. It shatters me to think they were the same age as my kids.

I believe those boys were survivors, and while a horrific act had to happen, they may have saved other children’s lives and inspired others to speak up about child sexual abuse.

I wish I could hug those boys and take them in as my own. The only thing I can do is be the best mother to my beautiful children—hug them more, tell them I love them more, and cherish every moment. I want my little ones to know I’m forever grateful for them, that my life is colorful because of them, and that I’ll fight for them with everything I have, even if it means bleeding dry.