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."