Dante

I learned very young that my family was not something people understood.

As a child, I didn’t notice it at first.

To me, home was normal.

Home was warm hands fixing my collar before school. A deep voice telling me to eat properly. Expensive coats draped over chairs. Late nights waiting for my father to return from business trips nobody explained to me.

Home was safety.

But outside?

Outside people stared.

I remember the first time I noticed it.

I was maybe seven.

There had been a parent event at school, one of those pointless gatherings where children showed drawings while adults pretended to care. Most students came with Omega mothers or Beta parents. Soft scents. Gentle smiles.

And then there was mine.

My mother arrived dressed entirely in black, tall enough to tower over half the staff, his Alpha scent carefully suppressed but still overwhelming enough to make teachers nervous.

I remember how quiet the hallway became.

Adults smiled too politely.

Children whispered.

One boy asked loudly, “Why is your dad holding your hand?”

And before I could answer, another child corrected him.

“That’s not his dad. It’s his mom.”

Silence.

Confused little faces turned toward us.

Toward him.

Toward me.

I still remember how tightly my fingers curled around his hand.

Not because I was ashamed then.

Because suddenly everyone was looking at us like we were strange.

Like something was wrong.

My mother crouched in front of me afterward while fixing my scarf.

“Did they upset you?” he asked calmly.

I shook my head.

But that was the first lie I ever told him.

Because they had.

After that, I started noticing everything.

The way adults hesitated around my parents.

The way people avoided asking questions directly.

The rumors.

Especially about my father.

Most people didn’t know what he truly was.

An Enigma.

The word itself carried weight in certain circles. Wealth. Influence. Danger.

I learned quickly that important people recognized his name immediately, while ordinary people only sensed something “off” about him without understanding why.

My parents hid it carefully.

For me.

Especially my mother.

He hated attention on our family.

Hated reporters.

Hated gossip.

Hated anyone looking at me for too long.

But children are cruel even when they know nothing.

By middle school the whispers had changed shape.

Why does your mother act like that?

Why is he an Alpha?

Can male Alphas even have kids?

Your family is weird.

Weird.

Always weird.

Never normal.

So I started hiding pieces of myself.

Small things at first.

I stopped talking about home.

Stopped mentioning my parents.

Stopped letting my mother pick me up directly at the gates because people stared too much at the expensive cars and the armed escorts.

He noticed immediately, of course.

He noticed everything about me.

“You ask the driver to come now,” he said once during dinner.

Not accusing.

Just observing.

I stared at my food. “It’s easier.”

A long silence followed.

Then he simply nodded.

“Alright.”

That should’ve made me feel relieved.

Instead it made my chest hurt.

Because he never forced me.

Never demanded explanations.

Even when I knew he understood exactly why I was doing it.

My father was worse in a different way.

He never spoke much, but when he looked at someone, they folded instantly. Teachers changed their tone around him without realizing it. Other Alphas lowered their gaze.

And me?

I adored him.

Which made the shame even uglier.

Because I loved them both.

More than anyone.

Yet every time classmates talked about “normal” families, I felt smaller somehow.

Like I had been born wrong.

I think the worst part is that my mother tried so hard for me.

He learned how to braid hair because I liked long hairstyles as a kid.

He attended every school event personally despite hating crowds.

He cooked when I was sick.

Stayed awake during my fevers.

Held me after nightmares.

Loved me so openly it was almost suffocating sometimes.

And still—

Still, at seventeen years old, I looked at him standing beside that car and called him a driver.

The memory makes me sick now.

Because I finally understand the expression he gave me that day.

Not anger.

Not humiliation.

Just pain carefully hidden behind restraint.

Like he had already expected this moment would come eventually.

Like some part of him always knew I would grow up and become embarrassed of being his son.