After My Twin Daughters Died, I Declared War on My Husband

Just because my fiveyearold twin daughters ate leftover cake that belonged to my husband's childhood sweetheart, he sent them to the Discipline Academy.

The instructors stormed into our home to drag them away by force. My girls clung to the car door, sobbing, screaming for their daddy.

I dropped to my knees and begged.

"They're only five years old. They're just babies. A place like that will kill them. I'm their mother—I'm the one who failed to teach them properly. If someone has to be punished, punish me..."

But my husband just stood there with his arms around his precious Gretchen, watching the three of us with cold, detached eyes.

"If you hadn't spoiled them so much, they wouldn't have turned into the entitled little brats they are today. I'm their father. If you can't discipline them, I will. What—do you think I'd actually hurt my own children?"

The next day, I rushed to the academy with my sisterinlaw.

What we found were my daughters' bodies. Covered in bruises. No longer breathing.

And my husband? He was on social media, celebrating the news that Gretchen was pregnant with his child.

I turned to my sisterinlaw, my eyes hollow, empty.

"My children are dead. I have nothing left. Please... just let me go. I don't want anything anymore."

By the time we reached the hospital, there were no vital signs to save. They never even made it to the emergency room—they were wheeled straight to the morgue.

My sisterinlaw looked at me with pity she couldn't hide, but still tried to comfort me in a soft voice.

"It's going to be okay. Don't worry. Grandpa and I are both on your side. My brother was wrong this time. I'll make sure he apologizes to you. You two can still—"

Before she could finish, I shoved my phone in front of her face.

On the screen was a post Max Simmons had made just two hours ago.

"Before you even came into this world, Mommy and Daddy already loved you."

Attached was an ultrasound report. The name on it was clear: Gretchen Mason. Six weeks pregnant.

Gretchen Mason. My husband's idealized love.

My sisterinlaw's voice died in her throat. A moment later, her face twisted with rage.

"I'm calling my brother right now. Don't worry—the Simmons family will give you an explanation for this—"

I let out a bitter laugh and dialed Max's number myself. The second the call connected, his impatient voice cut through.

"Are you going to whine about the kids being mistreated at school again? They're my children—who would dare touch a hair on their heads? Stop playing the victim. I sent them there to learn some manners. Was that really worth calling me over and over?"

"Marina Pruitt, you disgust me."

I hadn't said a single word. He'd already hung up.

I'd had the call on speaker. Every word reached my sisterinlaw's ears.

Her face went white. Her lips moved, trembling, but no sound came out—as if she no longer knew what to say.

I forced the ghost of a smile onto my face. Tears spilled down my cheeks in heavy, uncontrollable drops.

"Please. I have nothing left. Just let me go. I can't take this anymore."

She opened her mouth to respond, but two police officers were already approaching us.

"Are you the family of the deceased? The staff responsible at the Discipline Academy have been taken into custody. We need your cooperation with the investigation."

The moment I stepped into the police station, I saw them—the men who had come to my home yesterday to take my children.

I lost all reason.

A scream tore from my throat as I lunged at them, clawing, sobbing.

"You animals! You're all animals! They were only five years old! How could you do it?! How dare you?!"

Officers scrambled to pull me back. My sisterinlaw wrapped her arms around me, holding my thrashing body tight.

"Marina, please—don't do this, you have to calm down!" Ramona held my trembling body so tightly she was nearly crushing me into her arms. Her tears splashed hot against my back, scalding. "I promise you, the police will handle this properly. Those monsters who hurt the children—every last one of them will pay! The Simmons family won't let this go. Grandfather won't let this go. Louise Pruitt and Zelda Pruitt won't have suffered for nothing. We'll make them pay in blood!"

Her comfort was warm and urgent, but to my ears, it was nothing but bitter irony and despair.

I went limp in her arms, sliding to the floor. My gaze locked onto the men in black uniforms huddled in the corner—them. Yesterday, they had dragged my children into that van with their own hands. They had tortured my fiveyearold babies to death.

At first, my earlier breakdown seemed to have frightened them into silence. But now, seeing me drained of strength, nothing left but bloodshot eyes, they grew bold again. Contempt crept across their faces. One of them curled his lip and let out a low, mocking snort.

"Tch. What a hassle." The leader spat on the floor, his gaze sweeping over me with open disdain. His voice dripped with cold deflection. "Maybe if you'd done your job as a mother and raised them right? Spoiled rotten at that age, no respect for their elders—that's exactly why they were sent to our school. A little discipline never hurt anyone."

Another man chimed in, his tone even more vicious: "Our school has always believed in 'spare the rod, spoil the child.' Other kids can take it just fine. How were we supposed to know your two little girls were so fragile? One day of training and they gave out. Rotten luck, that's what this is—and now we're the ones dealing with the fallout!"

"What did you just say?!" My head snapped up. My fingers curled so tight my nails dug into my palms, drawing blood I couldn't feel. Fragile. Hassle. Each word was a poisoned blade, plunging into my heart, shredding what little sanity I had left. Rage and hatred detonated inside me, flooding through my veins, burning through every limb until my whole body felt like it was on fire. I wanted to lunge at them, tear the flesh from their bones, grind their skeletons to dust.

"You... you animals!" My voice came out shredded, like a broken bell. Every word was soaked in blood and tears. My body shook like a candle guttering in the wind. "My children were five years old. Five. What could they possibly understand? They were just babies! How could you do this to them? How dare you! I'll kill you—I'll make you pay for their lives!"

I tried to claw my way up, but Ramona held me down. Then a violent surge of copper flooded my throat, choking me. My chest seized like a boulder had been dropped on it, the pain blinding. The next second, my mouth opened and a spray of bright red blood burst out, spattering across the cold floor like blossoms of desperate, bloodred plum flowers, searing to look at.

My vision blurred. I could still hear Ramona's anguished screams, the men's panicked whispers—but I couldn't hold on anymore. My eyes fell shut, and I plunged into endless darkness, where even hatred became a distant thing.

When I woke again, the familiar scent of sandalwood filled my nose. Not the antiseptic smell of a hospital, but the distinctive fragrance of the Simmons estate. I opened my eyes slowly. Above me was the carved ceiling I knew so well. On the nightstand, a lamp cast a soft amber glow—warm light that couldn't touch the ice in my heart.

Ramona was curled up in the chair beside my bed, her eyes swollen like walnuts, dried tear tracks still visible on her face. Her hair was a mess, exhaustion carved deep beneath her eyes. She must have been watching over me for hours. The moment I stirred, she jolted awake and leaned in close, her eyes lighting up with relief and heartache. "Marina! You're awake? Oh thank God, you're finally awake—you scared me half to death!"

She reached out to feel my forehead. Only after confirming I had no fever did she exhale and continue: "Don't worry, we've been on top of the police. Grandfather made the calls himself. Everyone at that school—the administrators, the staff who laid hands on them—they're all in custody now. We won't show any mercy this time. We'll make sure they face the consequences. We'll get justice for Louise and Zelda!"

I turned my head slowly, my hollow gaze drifting to the ceiling. Empty. As if my soul had been ripped out, leaving only a broken shell behind.

Justice? What was justice? My children were dead. Their bodies covered in bruises. I never even got to say goodbye. Even if every last one of those people rotted in prison, my babies weren't coming back. Justice was just a lie we told ourselves.

"Please..." My voice floated out thin and numb, like something drifting up from the depths of hell. "Let me go, Ramona. I have nothing left. My children are gone. What's the point of being alive? I don't want anything—not compensation from the Simmons family, not your socalled justice. I just want to leave. I want to get away from here. Away from everything connected to Max..."

Ramona's hand froze midmotion, the joy draining from her face, leaving only raw heartache.

She knew. She understood what I'd already accepted in my bones—those monsters at the academy were guilty, yes, but the one who truly pushed my children into hell, who killed them with his own hands, was never anyone else.

It was their father. Max Simmons.

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 icecold 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 brothersinarms, 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.

I still remember those first days. I was timid, afraid to speak, afraid to meet anyone's eyes, always shrinking into corners. It was Ramona who sought me out, took my hand, and grinned at me: "Marina, this is your home now. I'm your little sister. Anyone gives you trouble, I'll make them pay!" And it was Julian who brought me treats every day, sat with me while I did homework, patted my head and said gently, "Don't be afraid, child. Grandpa's here."

Only Max hated me from the start. He called me "charity case" in front of everyone, threw my belongings out of the house, tormented me at every turn, insisted I didn't belong. But Julian always scolded him sharply, and Ramona always defended me. Eventually, Max learned to keep his cruelty quieter—though his contempt never faded.

All these years, Julian and Ramona treated me as true family, as one of their own. They gave me warmth, gave me something to hold onto, showed me what home could feel like. So seven years ago, when Julian suggested I marry Max, I agreed.

I told myself it didn't matter that Max didn't love me. It didn't matter that there was no romance between us. If I was good to him, kept the house running smoothly, gave him children—surely, someday, he would see my devotion. Surely he would soften, even just a little.

I told myself that even without love, even with a life that was merely ordinary, as long as I had my two precious daughters, as long as I could watch them grow—my life would have meaning. It wouldn't have been lived in vain.

I poured everything into my children, into this home. Max was rarely there. His heart belonged to Gretchen. I swallowed it. I accepted it.

But never—never—did I imagine that all my patience, all my hoping, would lead to this.

My two baby girls. The treasures I'd cradled in my palms for five years. Their own father signed them away to hell, where they were tortured to death.

And him? He was posting on social media, celebrating his precious Gretchen's pregnancy with his child.

Now I had nothing. No family. No children. No love. No home.

Only endless pain. Bottomless despair. And hatred carved into my bones.

I don't know how long I cried. My voice went hoarse, then silent. The tears dried up, leaving only the raw burn behind my eyes.

The door opened softly. Ramona stepped in, weariness etched on her face, but also a flicker of relief: "Marina, Grandpa wants to see you. He has something to say."

I slowly sat up, my body still icecold, my hands and feet numb. Ramona supported me as we walked out of the room, step by step, toward Julian's bedroom. Each step felt like treading on knife points, the pain making my whole body tremble.

Pushing open the door, I found Julian sitting in the old wooden chair by his bed. His hair seemed to have whitened even more, his back more hunched, his face etched with exhaustion and heartache. In his eyes lingered a deep, unmistakable guilt.

When he saw me enter, he slowly raised his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I walked to him and stopped, head bowed, unable to meet his gaze. I was afraid to see the pain in his eyes, afraid to see his guilt, and even more afraid that the emotions I'd barely managed to suppress would come flooding out again.

"Good child," Julian's voice was hoarse and weary, heavy with helplessness and remorse. He reached out and gently took my icecold hand in his. His fingers were still warm. "You're a good child. You've been wronged. Ramona told me everything—all these years in the Simmons household, you've suffered far too much. I failed to raise that boy right. I've failed you, failed your grandfather, and failed those two poor children, Louise and Zelda."

His voice caught, and tears slid down the creases of his weathered face, dropping onto the back of my hand—scalding hot.

"Tomorrow is the cremation," Julian took a deep breath, his tone heavy. "Once it's done, if you want to leave, then leave. I won't stop you. That boy doesn't deserve you. He shouldn't hold you back any longer, shouldn't make you suffer anymore. What the Simmons family owes you, owes those children—we can never repay it. Not in this lifetime."

I lifted my head and looked at his aged face, at the guilt and heartache in his eyes. Tears welled up again, unstoppable.

I said nothing. I only bowed deeply. As I bent at the waist, tears fell in heavy drops onto the wooden floor, each one landing with a soft sound, each one carrying my endless pain and gratitude.

I was grateful for Julian's twentysome years of care, grateful for his love and protection all these years, grateful for his understanding now. But I also knew this gratitude could never outweigh the hatred in my heart. I could forgive everyone in the Simmons family—everyone except Max. I could never forgive the man who had killed my children with his own hands. Never forgive the man who had destroyed my life.

After the bow, I straightened up. Still without a word, I turned and walked out of Julian's bedroom.

Back in my own room, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open gently—and the moment I saw who was inside, the blood in my veins froze solid.

Max was sitting on the edge of my bed. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, his hair combed without a strand out of place. There was no guilt on his face, no grief—only thick contempt and mockery. When he saw me enter, he slowly lifted his head, his lips curling into a cruel smile, his voice sharp and grating:

"What's this? Just came back from Grandfather's room? Couldn't wait to go running to him with your complaints?"

He stood and walked toward me, step by step, the disgust and derision in his eyes completely unconcealed.

"Do you actually believe that if you sweettalk my grandfather, sweettalk my sister, I'll suddenly see you differently? That I'll settle down and play house with you?"

The moment I saw Max, hatred surged through me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. I wanted to kill him right then and there. I wanted to send him straight to hell.

The hatred coiled around my heart like poisonous vines, squeezing until I could barely breathe. I stared at his hypocritical, vicious face, my nails digging so deep into my palms that blood seeped out—I didn't even feel it. My mind was filled with nothing but the urge to tear him apart.

But in the next instant, two small voices—soft and sweet—pierced through my surging hatred like a needle, gentle yet sharp, drilling into my ears as clearly as if they were right beside me.

Those were the countless nights when the girls had nestled in my arms, their little hands clinging tightly to my arm, their cheeks nuzzling against mine as they wheedled for attention.

Louise, the older one, blinking those big round eyes, her voice soft as cotton: "Mommy, I love Daddy so much. Daddy's the most handsome daddy in our whole kindergarten—even more handsome than Daisy's daddy!"

Zelda nodding along, her little head bobbing back and forth: "Mommy, we miss Daddy so much. Is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight? We drew a picture of Daddy. We want to give it to him."

Every time Max's coldness cut me and I'd cry in secret, those two little ones would reach out with their chubby hands to wipe my tears away, their voices chiming together: "Mommy, you're our favorite person in the whole wide world! Daddy's second favorite. We'll be good. We won't make Daddy mad. We won't make Mommy sad."

And that last time—when I'd fought my way into that hellish school and finally found them, their bodies covered in wounds, barely clinging to life—even then, the moment they saw me, they'd used their last shred of strength to grab the hem of my clothes, their voices faint as dying embers: "Mommy, we're sorry... Please don't fight with Daddy because of us. We weren't good. We didn't listen. We shouldn't have made Aunt Gretchen unhappy. Don't blame Daddy..."

Those voices—so gentle, so heartbreakingly understanding—sliced at my heart like dull blades, over and over, until I could barely breathe. Hatred and anguish twisted together, threatening to tear me in two.

I drew a deep breath, filling my chest with cold air, forcing down the crimson rage flooding my vision and the hatred threatening to consume me. I didn't look at Max. I didn't respond to a single word he'd said. I walked straight to the bed and sat down stiffly, my back ramrod straight—like a statue without a soul.

When he saw me ignore his mockery, when I refused to speak, the sneer on Max's face vanished instantly, replaced by thick irritation and impatience. He crossed the distance between us in a few strides, his eyes dark and menacing. Before I could react, he grabbed my arm with crushing force—hard enough to grind bone—and flung me onto the bed.

The mattress let out a muffled thud. My head spun from the impact. Before I could struggle, he was already pressing down on me, his hands clamping my wrists above my head, pinning them there with such force that pain shot through my arms. I couldn't move.

"What game are you playing now, Marina?" Max's face hovered inches from mine, his warm breath washing over my skin—yet it carried nothing but bonedeep coldness and revulsion. "Weren't you the one who had Ramona call me? Crying and begging for me to come back? And now that I'm here, you're playing mute? Trying the hardtoget routine with me?"

His eyes dripped with contempt, his lips curling into a cruel sneer as he leaned in. The reek of alcohol and Gretchen's perfume hit me first—that cloying sweetness coiling around me like something venomous. My stomach lurched. The hatred I'd buried came roaring back.

I thrashed against him, but my strength was nothing compared to his. He had my wrists pinned, my body immobilized, every attempt to break free only making his grip tighten until my bones ached.

Desperation sharpened into something feral. I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his lip with everything I had.

"Ngh—" Max grunted, the metallic taste of blood blooming between us. He released me instantly, shoving me back as he scrambled upright. His fingers came away from his mouth smeared red. The look he gave me could have curdled milk—pure, undiluted venom.

"Marina! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!" His voice exploded through the room, raw with fury. "You bit me? You—with that pathetic innocent act, that harmless little mask you wear—you think you have the right to touch me? To bite me?"

He glared at me like I was something rotting, his words sharp as broken glass: "Just looking at you makes me sick. This is how you've always operated, isn't it? Playing the wounded doe, wrapping Grandfather around your finger, making him protect you at every turn. You manipulated him into dragging me back here, and now you're pulling this hardtoget bullshit? You think I'll fall for it? Pathetic."

His chest heaved. He jabbed a finger at my face, each word a nail driven deeper.

"This is exactly why our daughters turned out the way they did—learning from you, from that fake helpless act. That's why they had the nerve to disrespect Gretchen in public. That's why they needed to be sent away, to learn some discipline, to be taught how to behave!"

"Enough." My voice cracked through his tirade—hoarse, shattered, but cold as steel. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted iron, using the pain to leash the grief and rage threatening to tear me apart. When I spoke again, each word was deliberate, precise:

"The children are dead."

Max's mouth snapped shut. The fury on his face froze, something flickering behind his eyes—confusion, maybe even a flash of fear. But it lasted only a heartbeat.

Then he laughed. A sharp, mocking sound, dripping with scorn. "Marina, is there any lie you won't tell? Any line you won't cross?"

He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, and thrust it in my face. Gretchen's ultrasound report glowed on the display, followed by his social media announcement. "You found out today that Gretchen is carrying my child, didn't you? And now you're so jealous you've gone insane—making up stories, trying to curse me, desperate to make me feel sorry for you?"

His voice turned to ice. "Is this really how low you'll stoop? Using our daughters to curse me? Marina, you disgust me. You don't deserve to be their mother. You don't even deserve to speak their names."

He didn't look at me again. He stood, brushing off his clothes as though I'd contaminated him, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused—didn't turn around—his voice flat with warning:

"You're the one who pushed me away, Marina. You're the one who didn't want my attention, my affection. So stop running to Grandfather to complain. Stop playing the victim, crying about how I neglect you, how I mistreat you. It only makes me despise you more. It only makes you look cheaper."

The door slammed. The walls seemed to shudder. Silence crashed back into the room—so complete I could hear my own breathing, ragged and hollow. The stench of alcohol and Gretchen's perfume still hung in the air, clinging to everything, making my stomach turn.

I lurched off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The faucet shrieked as I wrenched it open, icy water thundering into the sink. I grabbed my toothbrush, loaded it with paste, and attacked my lips—scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. Again and again, hard enough to tear skin. I needed to erase him. The trace of his breath. The humiliation. The revulsion. Every memory of him that had ever touched me.

The bristles jabbed into my gums. Pain lanced through me. Blood seeped out, its metallic taste mingling with mint, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Water ran down my chin, pink with blood and foam, dripping into the white porcelain basin like scattered petals—red as winter plum blossoms, beautiful and hopeless.

I raised my head and met my own eyes in the mirror.

Hair tangled. Eyes swollen and rimmed with red. Lips colorless except for the blood at the corners. My gaze—empty. Hollow. Dead.

I looked like something that had crawled out of a grave.

Nothing remained of the woman I used to be.

Unbidden, memories surfaced—distant, sweet, deliberately buried. I'd locked them away, too afraid to touch them, but now they crashed over me like a relentless tide, pulling me under.

Max and I had been in love once. Once, he'd held me in the palm of his hand like something precious.

It was my eighteenth birthday. The Simmons garden was filled with white roses—my favorite—and moonlight spilled soft across the lawn, a gentle breeze stirring the petals. Eighteenyearold Max stood among the roses in a crisp white shirt, tall and straightbacked, the tips of his ears burning red, a flush creeping across his cheeks. He clutched a bouquet of white roses so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He looked shy. Nervous.

He walked toward me, step by step, his gaze steady and deep, his voice carrying the faintest tremor: "Marina. Happy birthday. You're an adult now."

He held out the roses, his ears so red they might bleed. "I've liked you for a long time. Since you were eight, when you first came to live with us. You hid in the corner, looking at me with those timid eyes—that's when it started. I don't want to just be your brother anymore. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you for the rest of my life. I want you to be my girl." His voice dropped, raw and earnest. "Marina, give me a chance. Please?"

The devotion in those young eyes, steady as starlight, was intoxicating. In that moment, all my shyness and fear melted into something soft and boundless. I took the roses, their delicate fragrance filling my senses, and looked at him—so bashful, so sincere. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"Yes," I whispered.

Those days were sweet and warm. I believed the tenderness would last forever. I believed I'd finally found a home of my own, someone who truly loved me. I gave him everything—cooked his meals, managed his life, forgave his moods and temper. Because I loved him.

But the sweetness didn't last.

The year I turned twentytwo, Julian called us both into his study. The old man sat in his armchair, teacup in hand, his expression grave. When he looked at me, his eyes held something like guilt.

"Marina," he said slowly, "your grandfather saved my life. I've carried that debt every day since. You've had such a hard road—losing your parents so young, then your grandfather too. I couldn't bear to see you marry into some other family where they might mistreat you."

He paused, glancing at Max beside him. "You two grew up together. You love each other. You're both of age now." He set down his cup. "Why not get married? It would put my mind at ease—and honor your grandfather's memory."

I was overjoyed. I thought this was the culmination of our love story.

I had no idea that from the moment those words left Julian's mouth, everything would change.

Max's warmth vanished overnight. The tenderness, the devotion, the lingering looks—gone, as if they'd never existed.

He stopped being gentle. Stopped remembering what I liked. Stopped spending time with me. He could barely stand to look at me. I didn't understand. I racked my brain trying to figure out what I'd done wrong, why he'd become this stranger. I asked him, begged him to explain, but he never gave me a reason. He just looked at me with cold, distant eyes—like I was no one. Like I was nothing.

A year into our marriage, I got pregnant with twins. I thought the babies might bring him back to me, might restore what we'd had, might make us a real family.

I was wrong.

After that, Max only got worse. He stayed out every night—drinking, partying, never coming home. He paraded Gretchen around openly, his precious first love, showing her off at every event without a shred of shame. He didn't care about my feelings. He didn't care that his pregnant wife was watching.

I confronted him. I screamed, I cried. Every photo of them together, every whispered rumor, cut me like a knife. I sobbed and demanded to know why—why he was doing this to me, why he'd forgotten every promise he'd made, why he was betraying everything we had.

Max just stared at me, cold and mocking, like I was some raving lunatic.

"Are you done yet, Marina?" His voice could have frozen steel. "You got what you wanted. You're the young Mrs. Simmons now. You're giving the family heirs. The status, the position, the money—you have it all." His lip curled. "What more could you possibly want?"

"Don't stand there acting like you've suffered some great injustice—it makes me sick!" He let out a cold laugh, contempt dripping from every word. "You think I actually wanted to marry you? If Grandfather hadn't threatened to kill himself, if your grandfather hadn't once done our family a favor, if we didn't need you to produce an heir for the Simmons family—you think you'd have any right to stand beside me? Marina, face reality. You were never someone I loved. Not before. Not now. Not ever."

Every argument. Every sneer. Every cold shoulder. Each one was a blade, plunging into my heart, shredding it piece by piece. I'd cried. I'd ached. I'd humbled myself. I'd begged. And in the end, all I ever got was his coldness and disgust.

After that, I stopped asking why. Stopped fighting. Stopped pleading for even a scrap of his tenderness.

My heart had died completely. All I wanted was to quietly watch over my two precious daughters—to see them grow day by day, to watch them laugh, to watch them play. As long as I had them, I had a reason to keep living. My life still had meaning.

But I never imagined that even this humble wish was something Max refused to grant me. With his own hands, he pushed my babies—my hope—into hell.

I sat on the cold bench in the funeral home, my fingertips tracing the fabric over my knees again and again. The burning ache from kneeling on the ground yesterday still lingered there, just like the wound in my heart—scabbing over, only to be torn open again. I had finally, completely accepted that suffocating truth: Max had never loved me. Not before. Not now. Not ever. Even his own daughters meant nothing to him. Not a shred of pity. Not a moment of tenderness.

I always thought that even without Max's love, even if life was cold and lonely, as long as I could watch my two babies grow—see them blossom from innocent children into graceful young women, watch them marry and have families of their own—my life would be complete. My life would be happy. I poured all my hope, all my tenderness into them. They were the only light in my dark existence. The only reason I had the courage to live.

But now, even that light had been snuffed out by Max's own hands. My children. My babies, whom I'd nearly died bringing into this world. My daughters, whom I'd cherished for five years. Gone. Gone forever. From now on, my life held nothing but endless darkness and despair. Not a single ray of light remained.

Dawn was just breaking, the night not yet fully faded, the air carrying a bonedeep chill. The funeral home stood in solemn silence, the faint smell of disinfectant mingling with grief. The cremation chamber doors slowly closed, blocking my last glimpse of my children. I stood outside, my body rigid, like a statue stripped of its soul. My tears had long since run dry, leaving only the burning ache behind my eyes and the hollow void in my chest.

I don't know how much time passed before a staff member carefully placed two small urns in my hands, murmuring, "My condolences."

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."