Page 61 of Roulette Rodeo
No hollow cheeks, no bruises from IVs, no grey pallor of illness eating her from the inside.
She's whole,vibrant, and alive.
"MOMMY!"
The squeal tears from my throat without thought, and my little legs are running before I make the decision to move. I'm flying across the field, flowers parting before me, my dress billowing behind me like wings.
She drops to her knees just as I reach her, arms open, and I crash into her with all the force an eight-year-old can muster.
She smells like vanilla, lavender, and sweet cherries — like a hug of safety, love, and everything good in the world.
"My sweet girl," she murmurs into my hair as she stands, lifting me with her.
I weigh nothing in her arms—or maybe she's just strong here, in this place that can't be real but feels more real than anything has in years.
She spins us in a circle, and I shriek with laughter, my arms tight around her neck, my face buried in her shoulder.
Is this what love feels like when it doesn't hurt?
When she stops spinning, I lean back to look at her, my small hands framing her face like I need to make sure she's really there.
"You're not sick, Mommy," I whisper, wonder coloring every word.
Her smile is radiant, the kind I only saw in photographs from before I was born.
"I'm all better here, sweetheart."
All betterhere. Wherever here is.
This place that smells like her childhood and looks like every dream she ever shared with me about the life she'd wanted for us.
I look around, taking in the ranch, the horses, the endless sky that seems bluer than any sky has a right to be.
"Where are we?" I point at the ranch with one chubby child-finger. "Is that where we live now?"
"This is Grandpa's," she says, setting me down but keeping hold of my hand. "The last time we get to come here."
"Why?" I demand, because eight-year-old me has no filter, no careful control. "Why is it the last time?"
Her face does something complicated—sad but trying not to be, the expression I remember from when she'd try to explain why Daddy wasn't coming to my school plays.
"Well, Daddy wants us close to him and not so far. He wants to make sure we're safe."
I huff, the sound ridiculously cute coming from my child-body but filled with very adult frustration.
"Daddy doesn't care. We should run away here. Just you and me, Mommy. We could ride horses and grow flowers and never have to smell bourbon again."
The last part shouldn't make sense—eight-year-old me shouldn't know what bourbon smells like; shouldn't associate it with danger.
Mother pulls me into another hug, her hand stroking my hair the way she used to when I couldn't sleep.
"I'm not strong enough to do that," she whispers into my pigtails.
I pull back, indignant on her behalf even at eight years old.
"Mommy is the strongest omega ever! Why not run? Daddy doesn't even love us anymore."
The words tumble out, harsh truths in a child's voice.
