If he hadn't favored Gretchen. If he hadn't refused to listen. If he hadn't signed that agreement with his own hand, sending my babies to that place—my Louise and Zelda would still be curled in my arms right now, calling me Mama.
The one truly responsible had always been Max.
Ramona pressed her lips together, her eyes reddening again. She reached out and gently took my ice-cold hand. Warmth seeped from her fingertips into mine, but it couldn't thaw the frozen wasteland inside me. After a long silence, she seemed to steel herself, her voice both firm and tender: "Alright, Marina. I promise you. I'll go talk to Grandpa right now. No matter what he says, I'll help you. I'll get you out of here, away from all of this, so you can finally breathe."
I watched her walk away—that slender, determined silhouette like a lifeline thrown into dark water. But even a lifeline couldn't pull back a heart already shattered beyond repair. I couldn't hold it in anymore. The sobs tore out of me, muffled and desperate, as if I were purging every last drop of grievance, agony, and injustice I'd swallowed over the years. Tears soaked the pillowcase, cold against my skin, matching the chill that had settled into my very bones.
Memories surfaced unbidden—distant and warm, from another lifetime.
I was eight years old when I first came to the Simmons household. That year, Max was eight too. Julian Simmons and my grandfather had been brothers-in-arms, forged in the crucible of war. My grandfather had once risked everything to save Julian's life. Between them existed a bond sealed in blood.
My parents died in separate accidents shortly after I was born. I grew up at my grandfather's side—he was all the family I had. But fate is cruel. When I was eight, he passed away too, leaving me utterly alone. It was Julian who honored that old debt of gratitude. Despite resistance from his own family, he brought me into the Simmons home and raised me like his own granddaughter—cherished and protected.