Would they even want me after this?
“Hey, kiddo. You want to help me make dinner?” my dad asks, joining me on the couch. “We’re making roast chicken.”
I want to vomit on the floor, but I smile weakly instead. “Sure.”
“Liar.” My dad ruffles my hair playfully, and I bat him away. “Go back home and stop running from your troubles.”
“I’mnotrunning from my troubles. And this is my home.”
“You know what I mean.”
My parents are both Betas; and while they don’t exactly understand what it means to be an Omega, they’ve tried their best all these years. To my dad, ‘scent match’ means finding the right perfume, not something primal that makes my entire body come to life.
To my mom, nests are just fancy blankets. Has she bought a ridiculous amount of them every year for the holidays? Absolutely. Does she realize I don’t need that many?
Nope.
My parents don’t have to worry about the complications of any of this.
“She can stay as long as she wants,” my mom chirps, feeding Mervin his squeeze treat. “As long as she brings my grandbabies with her.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, he doesn’t need that many treats. He’s already had two of those.”
“He’s at Grandma’s house. He can have as many as he wants.”
I sigh, then a buzz from my phone interrupts my annoyance at my mom. I peer at the phone screen, anxious, then exhale when I see it’s just a text from one of the volunteers at the shelter about our inventory.
“Is that them?” my dad asks, peering over my shoulder.
“No, dad.”
“Want me to beat them up?”
I snort and look into the eyes that resemble mine so much. His are slightly richer, with more green mixing into his hazel hue.
“It’s three on one, dad. I don’t think so. And they didn’t do anything wrong, technically.”
My father frowns. “Then what happened?”
“She won’t tell me,” my mom says, scooping Marlin into her arms. She presses kisses to his nose and pretends to chew on his ear. “But that doesn’t matter as long as she brought my babies.”
My dad rolls his eyes. “At least I know where you get all this cat stuff from,” he grumbles. “You would think I’m not even in the house, the way she dotes on them.”
“They’re cuter than you, Arthur,” my mom replies instantly.
I smile weakly. My parents love each other deeply, and their house has always been filled with warmth and understanding.
Well, most of the time. My mom has a tendency to blame herself when things go wrong, and my dad gently course corrects her.
The time I broke my leg as a kid? Her fault.
When my dad had to have surgery on his knee? Somehow her fault.
When the power goes out? She must have tripped a breaker by blow drying her hair.
Even me presenting as an Omega when I turned eighteen was somehow her fault.
She was convinced she took the incorrect vitamins and not enough supplements when she was pregnant.
