THE SILENT REBELLION

Chapter 7

The weight of loss never really goes away. Not just for me. Grandfather had spent every moment by Mum’s bedside, clinging to hope that it might matter. But when it became clear that words couldn’t reach her anymore, he stayed, holding vigil in that dim, sterile room until she passed.

I’ll never know if he whispered anything to her, some message or secret, when I wasn’t there. He had a way of being silent when silence felt louder than words. My grandmother, notably, had chosen not to come. And at the funeral, Grandfather made it clear he’d stay for a week, anticipating "developments."

What he really meant was he feared my father might soon follow Mum. I think Dad held on longer than Grandfather expected, fighting for my sake, his heart breaking in the quiet moments. But on the very last day of Grandfather's stay, Dad, too, wandered onto the train tracks.

The letter Grandfather left wasn't quite a suicide note. More a collection of desperate thoughts. It admitted that if I was reading it, the voices had won, but he never wanted to leave me. It hurt to know he had fought off that darkness five times before. Yet there he was, writing words he feared I'd someday read. He spoke of pride, love, and the impossible weight of depression. He confessed Mum had begged him to stay strong for both of us. But in the end, he couldn’t.

Mum had warned me, in her own way, when we spoke in the hospital. She knew. That’s why she told me about Stone Mountain, an old family secret. She didn’t know her doctor had reached out to Grandfather, not until she fell unconscious.

I sighed, the forest outside blurring in my vision as the sadness rose, deep and aching. The grief never fully healed; it left something raw, a wound that wouldn’t scar over. I knew life had changed forever. Acceptance was one thing. Liking it was another.

A knock broke through my reverie, and I tore myself away from the window, returning from my memories. My grandmother stood there, clutching a basket of laundry and a hideous dress, plain and lifeless, already marked with bright red initials: AAA. Anger pricked my insides. She laid the dress on my bed without a word, spun on her heel, and left.

Biting down frustration, I closed my eyes. Anger led nowhere good, and I didn’t need more trouble. Trouble here meant public shaming or worse. Instead, I whispered a quick prayer to Ori, asking for strength, before rummaging through my things for my most basic undergarments. Granny-approved underwear: another joyful reminder of my status. I slid into the shapeless smock, the AAA standing out, a constant branding. As if the collar wasn’t degrading enough.

Fighting back tears, I stepped into the hallway, where Grandmother waited with lips pressed so thin they almost vanished. I could only guess what disapproval lingered there. With a huff, she handed me the basket and led me downstairs, silent and cold.

We entered a room I hadn’t seen before, all bathed in soft light from wide windows. A sewing room. She placed the basket on a large table next to another heaped with spools and threads, then motioned me out.

Breakfast was the usual gray sludge, now dubbed “dodgy-podge.” I took a slightly larger portion, sharing with the omegas, my quiet rebellion. My grandmother’s mouth twitched with fury, but she held back, unsure how to punish what wasn’t technically breaking rules. I sat beside Sophie, catching furtive smiles and nods of gratitude. Hands touched mine quickly, offering support in those forbidden moments. I hoped no one saw; they couldn’t afford to suffer because of me.

The sewing room became our refuge. After learning I had to embroider the initials myself, I enjoyed the rare silence. Lifting the window sash, I breathed in freedom, even if it was fleeting. Sophie entered first, then others, all carrying clothes to mend. They greeted me without breaking the rules, using names subtly introduced in soft conversation. Sophie, Bee, Joan, Lacy, Kat. A quiet rebellion filled the space, their warmth melting the isolation.

This was what pack life should feel like: love, unity.

But outside that room, the week dragged in unending chores. My grandmother made sure of it. I sewed, scrubbed, gardened, monitored other wolves—her idea, not mine. I was never alone, always watched, always busy. Morning and afternoon meetings blurred together as Grandmother dictated work schedules, listened to complaints, and maintained her iron grip.

I was trapped within an invisible boundary, the pack house perimeter. My wolf ached to run, to escape, to feel the forest beneath our paws, but the rules loomed large. I couldn’t risk it. If my grandmother caught me…

Yet even during meal times, my rebellion remained. I calculated portions, ensuring my omegas got their fill without taking more than Grandmother could tolerate. Her lips grew thinner, but I reveled in my tiny victories.

Sophie, Bee, Joan, Lacy, and Kat—my Loyal Ladies—offered me comfort in those moments. A brief touch, a whispered word, a secret smile. Simple gestures that meant the world. It helped, but the loneliness clawed at me. Wolves need their pack, the connection. Being ignored cut deeper than I imagined.

My observations, as requested by Grandfather, only deepened my horror. Every woman wore a collar. Every she-wolf was marked, claimed, controlled. And the lack of choice showed in their eyes. The shame twisted my stomach.

Somehow, I had to find a way through this.

-----

The weight of loss never really goes away. Not just for me. Grandfather had spent every moment by Mum’s bedside, clinging to hope that it might matter. But when it became clear that words couldn’t reach her anymore, he stayed, holding vigil in that dim, sterile room until she passed.

I’ll never know if he whispered anything to her, some message or secret, when I wasn’t there. He had a way of being silent when silence felt louder than words. My grandmother, notably, had chosen not to come. And at the funeral, Grandfather made it clear he’d stay for a week, anticipating "developments."

What he really meant was he feared my father might soon follow Mum. I think Dad held on longer than Grandfather expected, fighting for my sake, his heart breaking in the quiet moments. But on the very last day of Grandfather's stay, Dad, too, wandered onto the train tracks.

The letter Grandfather left wasn't quite a suicide note. More a collection of desperate thoughts. It admitted that if I was reading it, the voices had won, but he never wanted to leave me. It hurt to know he had fought off that darkness five times before. Yet there he was, writing words he feared I'd someday read. He spoke of pride, love, and the impossible weight of depression. He confessed Mum had begged him to stay strong for both of us. But in the end, he couldn’t.

Mum had warned me, in her own way, when we spoke in the hospital. She knew. That’s why she told me about Stone Mountain, an old family secret. She didn’t know her doctor had reached out to Grandfather, not until she fell unconscious.

I sighed, the forest outside blurring in my vision as the sadness rose, deep and aching. The grief never fully healed; it left something raw, a wound that wouldn’t scar over. I knew life had changed forever. Acceptance was one thing. Liking it was another.

A knock broke through my reverie, and I tore myself away from the window, returning from my memories. My grandmother stood there, clutching a basket of laundry and a hideous dress, plain and lifeless, already marked with bright red initials: AAA. Anger pricked my insides. She laid the dress on my bed without a word, spun on her heel, and left.

Biting down frustration, I closed my eyes. Anger led nowhere good, and I didn’t need more trouble. Trouble here meant public shaming or worse. Instead, I whispered a quick prayer to Ori, asking for strength, before rummaging through my things for my most basic undergarments. Granny-approved underwear: another joyful reminder of my status. I slid into the shapeless smock, the AAA standing out, a constant branding. As if the collar wasn’t degrading enough.

Fighting back tears, I stepped into the hallway, where Grandmother waited with lips pressed so thin they almost vanished. I could only guess what disapproval lingered there. With a huff, she handed me the basket and led me downstairs, silent and cold.

We entered a room I hadn’t seen before, all bathed in soft light from wide windows. A sewing room. She placed the basket on a large table next to another heaped with spools and threads, then motioned me out.

Breakfast was the usual gray sludge, now dubbed “dodgy-podge.” I took a slightly larger portion, sharing with the omegas, my quiet rebellion. My grandmother’s mouth twitched with fury, but she held back, unsure how to punish what wasn’t technically breaking rules. I sat beside Sophie, catching furtive smiles and nods of gratitude. Hands touched mine quickly, offering support in those forbidden moments. I hoped no one saw; they couldn’t afford to suffer because of me.

The sewing room became our refuge. After learning I had to embroider the initials myself, I enjoyed the rare silence. Lifting the window sash, I breathed in freedom, even if it was fleeting. Sophie entered first, then others, all carrying clothes to mend. They greeted me without breaking the rules, using names subtly introduced in soft conversation. Sophie, Bee, Joan, Lacy, Kat. A quiet rebellion filled the space, their warmth melting the isolation.

This was what pack life should feel like: love, unity.

But outside that room, the week dragged in unending chores. My grandmother made sure of it. I sewed, scrubbed, gardened, monitored other wolves—her idea, not mine. I was never alone, always watched, always busy. Morning and afternoon meetings blurred together as Grandmother dictated work schedules, listened to complaints, and maintained her iron grip.

I was trapped within an invisible boundary, the pack house perimeter. My wolf ached to run, to escape, to feel the forest beneath our paws, but the rules loomed large. I couldn’t risk it. If my grandmother caught me…

Yet even during meal times, my rebellion remained. I calculated portions, ensuring my omegas got their fill without taking more than Grandmother could tolerate. Her lips grew thinner, but I reveled in my tiny victories.

Sophie, Bee, Joan, Lacy, and Kat—my Loyal Ladies—offered me comfort in those moments. A brief touch, a whispered word, a secret smile. Simple gestures that meant the world. It helped, but the loneliness clawed at me. Wolves need their pack, the connection. Being ignored cut deeper than I imagined.

My observations, as requested by Grandfather, only deepened my horror. Every woman wore a collar. Every she-wolf was marked, claimed, controlled. And the lack of choice showed in their eyes. The shame twisted my stomach.

Somehow, I had to find a way through this.