A laugh tore out of me—harsh and broken and nothing like humor, scraping my throat on the way out. "My family," I repeated, tasting the bitterness of the word. "That's rich, Mother. That's really rich."
"Don't take that tone with me, young lady," my mother snapped, her composure cracking, color rising in her cheeks as she climbed the first porch step like she still had any right to enter my home. "We drove six hours to help you. The least you could do is?—"
"The least I could do?" I descended a step, putting myself between her and my Alphas, my whole body trembling with rage I'd buried for over a decade. "You want to talk about the least someone could do? Let's talk about the least you could do when your sixteen-year-old daughter needed her parents."
"Artemis—" my father started, his hand reaching toward me like he might actually touch me after all these years.
"Don't." I jerked away from him, and he flinched like I'd slapped him, his hand dropping uselessly to his side. "Don't you dare reach for me like you have any right. You lost that right when you stood there and watched her pack my bags."
"We were trying to protect you," my mother insisted, her voice climbing an octave, her perfect mask crumbling at the edges to reveal the desperation underneath. "You were... different. You presented wrong. We thought Marguerite could help you understand how to be a proper Omega, how to?—"
"A proper Omega?" I laughed, the sound jagged and raw. "You mean a quiet one. A submissive one. One who wouldn't embarrass her Alpha parents by existing."
"That's not what I?—"
"You sent me away because I was an Omega," I cut her off, my voice rising with every word. "Because two Alpha parents were supposed to have Alpha children, and instead you got me. I saw how you looked at me when I presented. Like I was defective. Like I'd done it on purpose just to spite you."
"We were trying to protect you," my mother insisted again, but the words rang hollow. "You were wild. Uncontrollable. You wouldn't submit to anyone, wouldn't behave the way an Omega should. We sent you to Marguerite because we thought she could help you understand?—"
"Understand what?" I snarled, and the sound that came out of my chest was barely human, a growl that made both my parents stumble back a step in shock. "Understand how to be small and quiet and obedient? Understand how to hide who I really was so you wouldn't be embarrassed at your country club?" I took a shuddering breath, feeling the old wound rip open fresh. "Two Alpha parents, and you got an Omega. Must have been such a disappointment."
My mother's face went rigid, a muscle twitching in her jaw.
"That's what it was really about, wasn't it?" I continued, the pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. "Not how I acted—what I was. An Omega daughter when you expected an Alpha heir. I embarrassed you just by existing."
"That's not—" my father started, but the guilt on his face told me everything.
"You couldn't parade me around at your Alpha social clubs," I said, my voice shaking with fury and grief. "Couldn't brag about your Alpha daughter following in your footsteps. Instead you got an Omega who refused to be quiet and submissive. No wonder you couldn't ship me off fast enough."
"I never said disgusting—" my mother protested, her voice pitching higher with defensive outrage, her hands fluttering at her sides.
"You didn't have to!" The words ripped out of me like shrapnel, years of pain and rejection finally finding their target. My voice echoed off the cypress trees, sent birds scattering from the branches overhead. "I saw your face when I presented as an Omega. I saw the way you looked at me like I was something dirty. Something shameful. You couldn't ship me off fast enough."
My mother's face had gone pale, her carefully applied foundation suddenly garish against the bloodless skin beneath. Her hands were shaking slightly as she gripped her designer purse like a shield, her knuckles white, her manicured nails digging into the leather. "Everything we did was for your own good," she said, but her voice wavered, the conviction draining out of it like water through sand. "We thought if you spent time with Marguerite, away from... bad influences... you'd learn to accept what you were. You'd learn to behave properly. To be normal."
The word hung in the air between us, ugly and poisonous.
"Normal," I repeated, the word like poison on my tongue, like something rotten I needed to spit out. I could feel my Alphas at my back, their protective energy wrapping around me like armor. "You mean empty. You mean small. You mean the kind of Omega who smiles and nods and lets one Alpha claim her like property and never wants anything more than what she's given." I laughed bitterly. "Or better yet, you wished I'd been born an Alpha like you. Then you wouldn't have had to be ashamed of me at all."
"We were never ashamed—" my mother tried, but her voice cracked on the lie.
"You couldn't even look at me after I presented," I shot back, the memory still razor-sharp after all these years. "Terrified and confused, and you looked at me like I'd ruined everything just by being what I was."
"That's not—" my mother tried to interrupt, her face flushing with indignation, a vein pulsing visibly at her temple.
"That's exactly what you meant." I took another step toward her, and she retreated, nearly tripping down the porch steps in her expensive heels, her eyes wide with something I'd never seen there before: fear. Fear of me. Her own daughter. "But here's what you never understood, Mother. There was never anything wrong with me. The only thing wrong was you."
I watched the words land like physical blows, watched her flinch back as if I'd struck her. The morning sun cast harsh shadows across her face, highlighting every line, every crack in the perfect facade she'd maintained my entire life.
"How dare you—" my mother started, drawing herself up with outraged dignity, her voice shrill.
"How dare I?" I laughed again, wild and sharp, feeling something break loose inside me—chains I hadn't even known I was still wearing. "How dare you. You show up at my home—uninvited, unwanted—because some corporation fed you lies,and you expect what? Gratitude? You expect me to fall at your feet and thank you for finally showing up after twelve years of silence?"
"We sent money," my father interjected weakly, his face ashen, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool morning air. "Every month. We made sure you were provided for."
"You sent checks," I corrected, each word a blade. "You outsourced your parental guilt to a woman you hadn't spoken to in twenty years and called it providing. You never called. Never visited. Never asked how I was doing or if I was happy or if I'd made any friends or—" My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it, hated that they could still make me feel like that broken sixteen-year-old girl. "You never even came to Aunt Marguerite's funeral. Your own sister, Mother. And you couldn't be bothered."
Something flickered across my mother's face—guilt, maybe, or grief she'd never let herself feel. "Marguerite and I had... differences," she said stiffly, her jaw tightening, her eyes cutting away from mine.
