I sat cross-legged on the floor, still in my dance clothes, and stared at the envelope. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The paper felt too heavy. Too final. Like Schrodinger's cat—as long as I didn't open it, my mother could be anything. Victim. Martyr. Someone who loved me.
But I knew better.
The envelope had been sealed for nine years. Whatever was inside had been true then and would still be true now. No amount of stalling would change it.
I broke the seal. The sound of tearing paper echoed in the empty studio.
The handwriting hit me first. Elegant. Careful. My mother's hand—I'd almost forgotten what it looked like. She'd left when I was ten. I had maybe three birthday cards saved in a box somewhere, remnants of a person I barely remembered.
I started reading.
Made it through the first paragraph before I had to stop. Put the letter down. Press my palms to the floor. Breathe.
I'm running away like the coward I am.
My chest was too tight. I picked up the letter again. Kept reading.
I disappeared into being his mate, his Omega, the mother of his child. And I watched myself vanish.
The letter slipped from my fingers. I couldn't—I couldn't breathe. My vision was blurring at the edges and my hands were numb and I couldn't get enough air.
She left because of the bond. Because she felt herself disappearing. Because she chose survival over staying.
I'd spent nine years thinking maybe she'd loved someone else. Maybe she'd been forced to leave. Maybe she'd had no choice.
She'd had a choice.
She chose herself over me.
I made it through the rest of the letter in pieces. Reading a few lines, then stopping when the words got too sharp. When they cut too close to my own fear.
My darling Vespera,
If you're reading this, you've presented as Omega. I knew you would. I could see it in you even when you were small—that magnetic quality, the way people were drawn to you. The thing that would make you valuable. Vulnerable.
I'm writing this the day before I leave. You're ten years old, asleep upstairs, and I'm running away like the coward I am.
I can't watch it happen to you. I can't stay and see what I know is coming.
Your father will tell you I left because I didn't love you enough. Maybe that's true. Maybe a better mother would have stayed and fought. But I'm not a better mother. I'm an Omega who chose herself.
When I bonded with your father, I thought it was love. Maybe it was, at first. But love and biology blur together until you can't tell the difference between what you want and what your body demands. I disappeared into being his mate, his Omega, the mother of his child.
And I watched myself vanish.
Not all at once. Small surrenders. Little compromises. Each one made sense in the moment—for pack harmony, for family, for love. But they added up until I looked in the mirror one day and didn't recognize myself.
I see the same fire in you that I had once. The talent. The dreams. The stubborn belief that you can be more than your designation.
And I can't watch the world take that from you the way it took it from me.
So I'm running. I'm choosing freedom over my daughter. I'm choosing myself over the little girl who needs her mother.
That makes me selfish. Weak. The worst kind of coward.
But I'd rather be a coward who survived than a martyr who stayed and lost herself completely.
If you present—when you present—the world will try to make you smaller. Quieter. More manageable. Alphas will see you as property. Biology will try to override your choices. Everyone will tell you this is natural, right, meant to be.
