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."
