Alpha’s Last Gift : A Daughter’s Devotion

“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?

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