It would go down in legend like the stories that Dad raised me on. I would be as infamous as my ancestors.
I am buzzing withfinallybeing able to take action.
It’s a talent knowing when to accept what you can’t change. But also, knowing when to change what you can’t accept.
And I am no longer accepting the injustice going on in this hotel.
I glance at my daughter, however, as she holds onto the wooden fencing around the sensory garden to keep herself onher feet. She is wrapped in one of my uniforms over her normal clothes because I don’t have a warm enough coat for her.
Fear grips my heart.
What if my choice means that she is endangered? What if she loses her mom?
Should I be taking this risk?
Yet should my fear for her present mean that I abandon her future?
Dad made that decision when he suffered for all those years with Maya, believing that somehow he could save us three kids by behaving like a submissive, elite Omega.
It didn’t work.
How can I make the same choice now?
The world is changing.
Twenty-five years ago, when Maya preyed on Dad with his Shattered Bond Syndrome, Omegas had little rights and no way of escaping from their Head Alpha.
Over the last couple of years, however, Omegas have been increasingly supported by the Omega Society to gain new laws that protect them, whether as Rejects or elites. It is the shadowy and illegal Omega resistance, however, that Maya hates, which has truly been fighting to free Omegas from their abusive packs and settle them with new ones, as well as do grand gestures like shut down the Institute.
Lashonda eagerly spreads the news of every victory through the HOs.
I know that they’re waiting for the resistance to come save them.
I’m not waiting any longer.
I will become the Omega hero in my own story.
I glance upward at the sharp winter sun through the gray snow clouds.
Maybe I am flying too close to the sun. Yet I would rather fly too close for a short while, as long as that means I blaze the way for every other Omega to fly to their freedom any way that they choose to.
Including my daughter.
And hers.And hers…and every generation that comes afterward.
I crouch down, smiling at Zoe. Then I brush off the leaves of the plants and herbs. My fingers are blue with cold. I wish that I had a pair of gloves.
The sensory garden is bright against the white with the red twig dogwood’s bright stems and the mahonia’s yellow flowers.
Chris bargained to work extra shifts in order to earn herbs and seasonable fruit and vegetables to be added to the garden as well. Now, I will be able to play treasure hunts with Zoe (I am looking forward to searching for wild strawberries with her in summer).
Zoe runs her fingers happily over the soft lamb’s ear leaves. They’re her favorite. Then she pulls one off, rubbing the fuzzy leaf over her neck.
She purrs.
“Soft.” I grab one too and copy her, purring as happily.
Sensory gardens are now standard in nurseries because Omegas have such a drive for discovering touch and different sensations.
