My mother asked me once, almost a year after the sentencing, whether I still believed Layla had somehow known, deep down, that her life was in danger, or whether she’d only ever feared the wrong thing, worried about a husband’s betrayal while a stranger’s jealousy was the danger that finally reached her.
I don’t have a clean answer for that. I don’t think one exists.
What I know is this: my sister spent her last six weeks quietly protecting a son who never got to meet her, filing paperwork, documenting fear, doing everything in her power to make sure that whatever happened to her, the truth would still find its way into a room full of people who loved her.
It did. It just took a lawyer, a doorbell camera, and a courtroom to get there.
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