When you are convicted of a thing you did not do, something insidious happens over time, and no one warns you about it.

The world is so unanimous, so certain — the jury, the judge, the newspapers, your husband, the woman with her hand on her stomach — that a small crack begins to open in your own mind, a place where you almost start to wonder.

Not whether you did it; you know you didn’t.

But whether your own certainty means anything at all against the certainty of everyone else.

Whether truth is even a real thing, or just whatever enough people agree to say.