What is there to celebrate? My failures; the fact I am pack-less and homeless; that I am raising a baby on my own because the father refuses to believe he got with a seventeen-year-old; because he can’t recognize me as his mate.
“Shift! Please, Everly. I can’t watch you suffer in the rain. Please,” my mother begs through the window, sucking in a deep breath.
You can do this, Everly, I whisper to myself. It isn’t how I imagined shifting, but I need to put my big girl panties on and do what’s required. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that nobody will be celebrating for me anyway—not anymore—before stripping my saturated shirt off. I hang it over a railing along the far wall before shedding the pajama pants. It's late at night so I'm pretty sure no one will see me. Even if they did, they w
