I froze when I heard Rosetta's voice. I had completely forgotten about my promise from a few days ago. After a moment, I said, “Sorry, I was busy tonight, but will come by tomorrow morning.”

Since we had first arrived to the city, my dad and I had been crashing at our distant relatives, the Marskes’. Randle Marske had met my father a few times when he visited the city, and when we moved here, he and his daughter Rosetta welcomed us with open arms.

Randle wasn't a werewolf, but his late wife was an Omega from our pack. My father had once protected her, and she had moved here, marrying a human. Rosetta and I were close in age, which helped us bond quickly.

“Colby, make yourself at home,” Randle had said when we first arrived. “We’ve got plenty of room here. We owe you a lot.”

“Thanks, Randle. I really appreciate it,” my father replied.

“Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you need. It’s pretty quiet with just me and Rossie here,” Randle assured us.

After we settled in, my dad struggled to find a decent job. With no official university certificate, he could only get work as a laborer. I was enrolled in the cheapest school in the neighborhood, but it was fine.

Surviving up to this point was something to be thankful for, but I was juggling a lot. I worked odd jobs—distributing flyers, pet sitting, yard work, running errands—to make ends meet. The education system here was also different from what I had known back in the pack, and keeping up with homework and jobs was overwhelming.

Over the years, my dad had also gotten worse. He had fallen into a deep depression, drinking heavily and losing the strength and charisma that used to make him so admirable. Now, he just seemed tired and detached, watching TV and stacking up cans of beer.

Three years after we moved in, Rosetta’s father had a heart attack and died suddenly. It hit us all hard, but it seemed to devastate my dad the most. He became even more withdrawn and irritable, and our relationship suffered. He stopped being affectionate and started blaming me for everything—if the house wasn’t clean, if I didn’t do the dishes, or if dinner was late.

I wanted to tell him I was exhausted, but he would just lash out, calling me a spoiled brat and saying he regretted saving me. He would also compare me to Rosetta, saying we wouldn’t have made it without her and her family’s help. I’d bite my tongue and get the work done, avoiding arguments. Our interactions became a constant source of tension, filled with hurtful words and broken things. I would leave crying, and he’d drown his sorrows in more drinking. It was a painful cycle.

But now, with my time running short, I was thinking it might be worth reaching out to him again. Maybe I could see him and finally tell him about my illness.

I slowly walked back to my apartment, where I had been living alone for the past two years since I turned eighteen. It was just a few blocks from the hospital, but with no buses running this late and a taxi being too pricey, I braved the cold winter night on foot. I bought a cup of coffee to warm my hands along the way.

When I finally made it to my apartment, I was hit with a nasty coughing fit as soon as I got inside. I turned on the old heater and collapsed onto the sofa, wrapping myself in a blanket. But the coughing wouldn’t let quit, and then I noticed red clumps of blood on my hand.

Panicked and shivering, I grabbed some tissues and tried to calm myself. I remembered the medicine the doctor had prescribed and took it before forcing myself to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up way too early because the heater had stopped working and the room was freezing. I added an extra blanket and tried to catch some more sleep.

A few hours later, my alarm blasted, jolting me awake. My body was aching, but I dragged myself into the shower for a quick cold rinse. I had promised to visit Dad today, so I got everything ready and even cooked some lasagna for us to share before heading out.

When I arrived, Dad barely looked at me, while Rosetta greeted me with a warm hug. “Here you are! I was worried—you said you were sick,” she said.

“That’s probably just another lie. She’s never honest and doesn’t care about us,” Dad suddenly blurted out.

Rosetta was always kind, and I felt bad for her being caught in the middle of our family drama. She tried to stay neutral, but Dad clearly favored her over me, even treating her like his own daughter.

Things had gone south when I turned 18. After some humiliating photos of me were sent to him from an unknown number, Dad flipped out, calling me all sorts of names—slut, whore, bitch—without letting me explain. He said my mom would be disappointed and that I should just leave because he couldn’t stand me.

Since then, he’d only cared about Rosetta and shut me out. Now he even called her “Rossie” while giving me the cold shoulder though I had been juggling multiple minimum-wage jobs just to make ends meet and send money to Dad.

I couldn’t even go to university with all the work and stress. Rosetta worked part-time too, but her paycheck wasn’t enough to cover everything, especially since she was mostly at home taking care of Dad.

“What the hell are you doing here anyway? I don’t like seeing your face,” my father grumbled.

“I invited her,” Rosetta quickly said, trying to ease the tension. “I thought it’d be nice if we spent some time together as a family. Right, Phoebe? Oh, you brought lasagna!”

She served up three plates and urged us to eat. Dad hesitated, and as I looked at him, I noticed how much older and worn out he seemed. Life hadn’t been easy for either of us, but it didn’t excuse the way he treated me.

Rosetta tried to lighten the mood by asking, “So, Phoebe, how’s work going?”

“Not bad,” I replied. “I’m working as a cleaner at a casino and doing some waitressing at a bar.”

Dad scoffed, clearly unimpressed with my jobs. I bit my tongue instead of reminding him that those jobs were keeping us afloat.

He hadn’t worked in years, his body too broken down from drinking. He couldn’t even transform into a werewolf anymore. Every few months, I’d go off on my own, camping in the forest or mountains, hunting, and transforming under the moon just to feel connected to my old life.

During those moments, I’d stare blankly toward the south, where my pack was, wondering what it was like now. I also thought about Olga. We had lost contact after we got here, and my father never mentioned her or anything related to the pack anymore.

After we finished eating, I noticed the usual sight: empty beer cans scattered around. He was still drinking heavily, nothing had changed.

I went to Rosetta’s room, and she looked concerned. “Phoebe, your dad’s getting worse. But he just won’t quit drinking.” I was worried too, but I didn’t know what to do. He never listened to me anyway.

Rosetta encouraged me to talk to him anyway, so I took a deep breath and walked over to where he was, sitting in his usual spot on the sofa, glued to the morning news. I tried making small talk, but he just ignored me. Finally, I asked, “Dad, are you still drinking?”

No response. I pressed on, “I really think you should stop…”

However, he cut me off, defensive and angry. “Shut the fuck up. You think you’re better than me? Look at what you’ve become!”

Normally, I’d snap back, but I was too drained. I just said, “I’m only saying this because I’m worried I won’t be able to pay for it if you get really sick.”

That made him even angrier. “You’re a terrible daughter, nothing like Rosetta!”

I tried to keep my cool. “Money’s tight, and I’m sick too. I need to take care of myself.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back. “You’re just being selfish after everything I’ve done for you.”

He didn’t even care enough to ask about my illness. I felt that the conversation was going nowhere, so I walked away to my old room.

As soon as I got inside, I started crying. I didn’t even know when it started, but every time we talked, I ended up in tears.

He was a trigger for me, which was why I stayed away most of the time. I looked around the room, remembering when we first came here.

All I had was the clothes on my back and a backpack from Olga. Inside were some bread and a little cash she had managed to pull together. That money kept us going for about a month. Afterwards, Rosetta had shared some of her clothes with me, and Dad had bought me a few things—furniture, clothes, and toys, mostly in pink.

Just as I was lost in my thoughts, I heard my father shouting from the TV room, telling me to take all the stuff from my old room to the basement or just sell it since I was never there anyway.

My fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms. This room was the closest thing I had to my childhood and my father—a time capsule of better days. But maybe it was time to let go. I wasn’t going to live long anyway, and it’d be easier to do it now than leave it for someone else later.

I spent the day packing up the room with Rosetta’s help and by the afternoon, I had a moving truck come to take the larger pieces—the bed, the cabinets, the tables—to a charity center. My dad just watched from his usual spot on the sofa, sipping from his beer cans.

Later that night, Rosetta asked me to stay for dinner, but I was drained. “I just want to sleep. I woke up way too early today,” I said.

I left without a word from my dad, who didn’t even glance in my direction. The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped outside, and I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth. At the bus stop, I started coughing again, this time spitting up more blood. I wiped it away with my handkerchief, but as I went to board the bus, my chest tightened, and everything started spinning.

This time, more blood spurted from my mouth.

In a daze, I collapsed.

Was I about to die?

......