I took them, and the cold seeped into my fingertips. They were terrifyingly light. So light my heart trembled. When they were born, they'd been so tiny—wrinkled little things, lying quietly in my arms, warm and soft. How was it that after only five years, they were even smaller, even lighter? So light I could barely feel them. So light it seemed they might vanish from my fingertips at any moment.
My eyes stung. Hot tears welled up, threatening to spill. I bit down hard on my lower lip, teeth sinking into flesh until the sharp taste of blood flooded my mouth. Only then could I force the surging grief back down. I couldn't cry. My children were watching. I had to be strong. I had to stay with them. I couldn't let them suffer any more.
Ramona had stayed by my side the whole time. Her eyes were red and swollen, tear tracks still drying on her cheeks. She looked at me with worry and heartache, gently tugging my sleeve, her voice hoarse and soft: "Marina, if it hurts, let yourself cry. Don't hold it in—you'll make yourself sick. I'm here."
I didn't answer. I didn't look at her. I just lifted my gaze past the small crowd and fixed it on Julian, who stood by the car, preparing to leave for the cemetery. The old man had his hands clasped behind his back, his hair white, his shoulders stooped. Exhaustion and sorrow lined his face, and deep in his eyes, I could see guilt.
Cradling the two small urns, I walked toward him, each step heavy, as if I were treading on knife points. I stopped before him and raised my head. My eyes were steady. Not a trace of hesitation.
"Grandfather." My voice was clear, each word deliberate. "The children will not be buried in the Simmons family plot. I'm changing their surname. From now on, they won't be Simmons. They'll be Pruitts. They are not Simmons children. They are mine. Mine alone."
