Traitor To The Alpha
I went back to being a bro, the smart one, the classroom perfectionist.
I took refuge in my room in my book. If my father had been loving, kind, or comforting, he would have read me my favorite stories every night as my mother had. Instead, he looked at the distraught eight-year-old girl who just lost her mother and asked, “Aren’t you old enough to read by yourself?” to which I nodded and went back to my room, alone. For the very first time, I opened my little blue book, Fairytales for Fairy Princesses. Inside were stories I had never heard of and symbols I’d never seen. Even as a small child, I knew this was something I shouldn’t have, it felt forbidden, and above all, it was a secret. My m
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