He Named His Dad's First Love as Mom

My son wrote another woman's name in the box marked "mother" on his college application.

He said it across the dinner table where everyone could hear.

"Aunt Lola is more of a mom—if I write about you, admissions will see that nobody loves me."

My husband nodded and called it practical, the kind of thing the elite schools want.

Three nights before, on the Blood Moon, Marcus had reached up and unpinned the silver crown from my hair in front of the whole hall.

I didn't fight him for it.

I packed one bag and went back to the job I'd kept quiet for five years.

Laurelmont admits only wolf-blooded elites, and I'm a human they let nowhere near the bloodline—except they made me the one who checks it.

Final interview season.

The third candidate walked in and his essay slid out of his hands, the one that named someone else as his mother, now lying open in front of me.

"Mom? Why are you—"

"Chair of the committee," I said, and closed his file. "Acting authority over Moon-bloodline verification."

I slid the essay back across the table, all the way to the signature blurred with tears.

"You want to reclaim your bloodline? Fine."

"First, go take back the crown you unpinned with your own hands."

***

The heavy cream parchment slid across the mahogany dining table, stopping inches from my plate.

"Sign it," Ezra said.

My seventeen-year-old son didn't look up from his phone. His thumbs flew across the screen, tapping out a rapid rhythm that filled the silence of the dining room.

I glanced down at the Laurelmont Academy application. My eyes drifted past his impressive GPA, past the meticulously typed essay section, and landed on the box labeled Mother.

Typed in crisp, black ink was the name Lola Lockhart.

"This is Lola's name," I said.

Ezra finally looked up. He set his phone face-down on the table. "Yeah. I know."

"You are applying to Laurelmont." I kept my hands resting on the edge of the table. "I am your mother."

"If I write your name down, the admissions officer will see right through it," Ezra muttered, stabbing a piece of asparagus with his silver fork. "They'll look at our pack records. They'll see no one loves me enough to actually support my application. Lola has the connections. You don't."

"No one loves you?" I repeated, my voice dropping a fraction.

Marcus wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it onto his empty plate. "Leave the boy alone, Dahlia. It's practical."

My fingers tightened around the silver handle of my fork. The metal pressed into my skin, hard and cold. Eighteen years ago, I stood in the pack square, gripping my paper vow card the exact same way. Old Alpha Theo had stared down at me from the dais, his voice booming over the microphone. She is a human stain on the bloodline. I hadn't defended myself then. I just gripped the card until my knuckles turned white.

The fork hovered above my half-eaten steak. I didn't let it drop.

"Practical," I echoed.

"Ivy Leagues want a cohesive family narrative," Marcus continued. He leaned back in his chair, exuding the casual authority of an Alpha who never had to raise his voice to be obeyed. "Lola sits on the charity boards. She hosts the galas. Putting her name down shows stability. Putting yours down raises questions we don't have time to answer."

"Questions about why the Alpha's true mate is a ghost in her own pack," I said.

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Don't start this tonight. The deadline is tomorrow. We need this done."

"Lola isn't his mother on any legal document," I pointed out. "The school requires accurate biological or legal guardianship information."

"Lola is his mother in every way that counts to the outside world," Marcus snapped. "She attends the parent-teacher conferences. She buys his uniforms. You sit in your room."

"Because you banned me from the pack grounds during school hours," I replied.

"I protected you from the whispers," Marcus countered, his tone hardening. "Do you want to ruin his future over your pride?"

"She actually knows my teachers, Mom," Ezra chimed in, his tone sharp with teenage cruelty. "You don't even know what classes I'm taking."

"I know you are failing AP Calculus," I said softly.

Ezra's face reddened. He opened his mouth to argue, but Marcus cut him off.

"Enough," Marcus said. "We aren't debating this."

I turned my attention back to Ezra. He refused to meet my gaze now, focusing entirely on cutting his steak into tiny, even squares.

I reached across the table.

He usually flinched. For three years, any time I raised a hand toward him, he pulled away. He treated my touch like a burn.

This time, he sat perfectly still. His jaw clenched, but he didn't move away.

I smoothed the wrinkled edge of his uniform collar. The fabric felt stiff against my fingertips. As my hand brushed the fabric over his chest pocket, it caught on something hard and sharp hidden inside.

I knew that texture. Heavy cardstock, embossed with foil.

It was a torn piece of the Blood Moon Ball invitation from three nights ago.

The same night Marcus had stood before the entire assembly, unpinned the Luna moon crown from my hair, and placed it on Lola's blonde head.

I didn't scream then. I didn't throw a glass. I watched my husband give my title to his mistress while my son clapped from the front row.

I didn't ask Ezra why he kept a piece of that night in his pocket.

Instead, I pulled my hand back and looked at the application form again.

"Has this been submitted yet?" I asked.

Marcus let out a short, dismissive sigh. "Tomorrow morning. I've thrown money at Laurelmont's doors for three years. I'm not letting a technicality ruin his chances. Silver bullets clear the path."

"Right," I murmured. "Silver bullets."

I picked up my knife. I pressed the blade into the meat, slicing a perfect, even piece. My hands did not shake. I chewed my food, swallowed, and dabbed my mouth with my napkin.

"I will sign it," I said.

Marcus nodded, satisfied. "Good. Leave it on my desk when you're done."

Dinner ended in silence. I left them in the dining room discussing the upcoming lacrosse season and walked upstairs to my bedroom.

The heavy oak door shut behind me, cutting off the sound of their laughter.

The room felt cold. It always did. I crossed the plush carpet to the dresser in the corner. I pulled the bottom drawer all the way out, past the winter sweaters I hadn't worn in years, and reached into the dark space underneath.

My fingers found the manila envelope taped to the wood.

I peeled it free. The adhesive made a quiet tearing sound in the empty room. I carried the envelope to the small vanity table. Sitting on the edge of the velvet stool, I opened the flap and slid out the folded document.

The Westside apartment deed.

Three years ago, Marcus had stormed into this very room, tearing his hair out over a missing four hundred and twenty thousand dollars from the pack's development fund. Lola had drained the account to cover her brother's gambling debts. Marcus couldn't let the elders find out his mistress was a thief.

So I went to the bank. I mortgaged the only property my human father left me. I handed Marcus the cashier's check, and he handed it to the auditors.

He promised to pay me back. He never did.

I kept the deed. It was the only piece of paper that proved what I sacrificed to keep this family from crumbling.

I smoothed the creases of the deed flat against the vanity glass. The harsh light of the vanity bulbs illuminated the legal jargon and my signature at the bottom.

Then, I reached into my purse resting on the floor. I dug past my wallet and keys, pulling out a small, rectangular object.

I placed it right next to the deed.

It was a plastic administrative badge, stamped with the deep blue crest of Laurelmont Academy.

Underneath the crest was a name. Not Dahlia Reyes. Not the Luna of this pack.

Dahlia Reyes.

My maiden name. The name I used before Marcus erased me from the public eye.

I stared at the crisp white background of the badge. The edges were worn from daily use. The photo showed a woman with sharp eyes and a straight spine, entirely unlike the silent wife who sat at the dining table downstairs.

I picked it up and turned it over.

Printed on the back, in neat, unassuming letters, was a title.

Chair, Admissions Committee.

I pressed my thumb over the letters. The slight indentation of the ink felt rough against my skin. My pulse drummed a steady, quiet rhythm against my ribs.

Marcus thought his money bought a clear path. Ezra thought his mother was a useless ghost.

My thumb slid down to the magnetic clasp holding the badge to its lanyard.

I pushed against the metal backing.

The clasp popped open with a sharp, echoing half-click.