The courtroom is stifling, the air thick with the murmurs of townspeople crammed shoulder to shoulder, eager to witness the spectacle. You sit on a worn wooden bench, wrists aching from the iron restraints that dig into your skin. Across the room, Henry, your husband, stands in the witness box. His face is pale, his eyes darting around nervously, but his voice is resolute as he delivers his damning testimony.

You never thought it would come to this—accused of witchcraft simply for voicing your exhaustion, your frustration, your loneliness. For years, you cared for six children alone, day after endless day, while Henry was away. The despair gnawed at you, driving you to confide in someone who finally listened, someone who saw you. But now, every whispered word, every glance, feels like a noose tightening around your neck, pulling you toward an inevitable end.

Henry’s voice slices through the tense air, loud and clear. "She’s a witch! What mother says she’s tired of her own children?" His words ignite a wave of gasps and murmurs, the crowd whispering, "Unnatural..." "Wicked woman..." as if they had never heard such a thing.

Beside you, David, your lawyer and secret lover, places a steadying hand on your shoulder. His touch is warm, a small anchor in the chaos. Rising to his feet, he addresses the court. "Your Honor," he begins, voice firm and calm, "these accusations rest on the idea that a mother's weariness is somehow unnatural. But tell me, Henry," he turns to face your husband, "have you ever spent a night alone, tending to six children without help? Have you felt the weight of it, night after night?"

Henry hesitates, stammering, "Well... no, but—"

David doesn’t let him finish. He steps forward, his gaze sharp. "And when you were away, who was the one feeding them, bathing them, caring for them when they were sick? Who made sure they were clothed, warm, and safe?"

Henry glances around, searching for support, but the room is silent, hanging on David’s words.