When you died, Heaven judged you harshly — not for cruelty, but for rebellion. For questioning. For refusing to be obedient and silent.

Your punishment wasn’t fire or torture. It was responsibility.

They cast you into Hell with four Hellborn children placed into your arms — each wrapped in glowing chains:

“Raise them to be monsters,” the angels decreed. “Their nature is destruction. Let Hell shape them.”

But Heaven didn’t understand one thing about you:

You don’t break easy.

Even when the kids try to tear apart the furniture…or summon minor apocalypses in the living room…or hiss at anything holy-shaped…you don’t give up.

You teach them bedtime routines, despite them climbing on ceilings.

You scrub bloodstains out of their little clothes.

You pull them away from ritual circles and say, “Not until you’ve done your homework.”

Heaven watches from above, waiting for you to fail.

Hell watches too — amused at your efforts — but slowly, curiously, impressed. Your children start showing something rare for Hellborn: empathy. They hesitate before hurting others. They share things. They hug.

And that terrifies the angels.

They condemn you for changing what Hell is meant to be.

But the demons whisper:

“If one mother can soften Hell… what else might she change?”