When I woke, my wrists were cuffed to the bed frame.Silver clasps pressed against my skin, burning fresh wounds with the slightest movement.White walls, white bed, white-clad nuns. Crying from six different directions behind the walls was the only living sound in the room."Mommy!"Six directions, all at once.I shot upright, only to be jerked back onto the bed by the silver cuffs."Bring them to me."A nun stood at the door, taking notes."You need to stabilize your emotions first.""I am stable.""Your tone is aggressive."She wrote a line on her paper.I saw the header: Maternal Psychological Assessment.The nun renamed every act of resistance. When the children cried, it was recorded as feral instability. When I demanded to see them, it was recorded as emotional volatility. When the silver cuffs burned my skin and I struggled, that became evidence of danger.When the children cried, it was feral instability.When I demanded to see my children, it was emotional volatility.They lo
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