Page 82 of Omega's Faith

I don't cry. I want to, but the tears won't come. Maybe I'm just empty.

Either way, I lie there staring at the ceiling until exhaustion finally pulls me under.

Sunday arrives with the church bells that have called ourcommunity to worship for fifty years ringing out across the neighborhood.

I dress in my usual Sunday clothes and follow my parents as they walk across the park to the church.

The photographers are still there, of course. They've been there all night, taking shifts. One of them is actually sleeping in his car, mouth still open, camera still clutched in his lap.

A couple of them snap shots of us but they don’t follow. Pastor David has made it very clear that they are not welcome unless they wish to worship with us.

The Fellowship's building is simple white clapboard with a modest steeple, built by the founding families' own hands sixty years ago.

But the moment I walk in, I feel the shift in the air. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Eyes track my movement then quickly look away. The space around me widens like I'm contagious.

We take our usual pew—third from the front, left side—but the family who usually sit beside us have mysteriously decided to relocate to the back. Whispers follow in our wake.

Mom's spine gets straighter with each murmur. Dad's jaw could crack granite. But they sit with their heads high.

Pastor David's sermon is about commitment and about keeping vows even when they're difficult. He speaks about the sanctity of marriage and the weakness of those who run at the first sign of trouble. He doesn't look at me once, but he doesn't need to. Everyone knows who he's talking about.

I sit through it all, hands folded, eyes forward. After the service, in the social hall where everyone gathers for coffee and gossip disguised as fellowship, I stand alone by the punch bowl. People orbit around me but never quite approach, like I'm surrounded by an invisible fence.

This is my future if I stay here. It’ll be years of polite isolation.My family are already being affected. The longer I stay, the worse it will get for him. At least if I leave, the scandal will die down enough one day. It won’t if I am still here.

I don't believe in divorce. The thought makes something in my chest clench. Marriage is sacred and if Alex has already moved on, then I'm looking at a lifetime of celibacy. I’ll be an omega alone, raising a child whose alpha father preferred someone else.

The thought should devastate me. Instead, I feel oddly calm. It feels like I've already grieved his loss and now I'm just waiting for my heart to catch up with my head.

Pastor David approaches as I'm refilling my punch cup for the third time, more for something to do with my hands than actual thirst.

"Jonah." His voice is marginally warmer than yesterday, but not by much. "I hope you've had time to reflect on our conversation."

"I have."

"And?"

"And I stand by what I said. But I also—" I take a breath, choose my words carefully. "I understand your concern comes from love. You've guided this community for longer than I've been alive. Your wisdom has shaped all of us."

It's not quite an apology, but it's close enough. His expression softens fractionally.

"Your parents are good people, Jonah. Devout, faithful people. They deserve better than this."

He's right about that, at least. Mom and Dad have done nothing wrong except raise an omega who doesn't know how to submit properly, who speaks out of turn, who couldn't make his marriage work.

"I know," I say quietly.

He pats my shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle for aman who just spent an hour condemning me from the pulpit.

I just nod and let him walk away.

The family dinner after church is tradition. Every Sunday, all six of us kids gather at our parents' house with our spouses and children. The house fills with laughter and chaos, kids running through hallways, adults crammed around the dining room table that Dad built when Robert was born.

Today is no different, except for how it is.

I think this is going to be the last one because I have to leave. I don’t know where I am going to go and what I am going to do when I get there, but I can’t stay here. I decide to tell them after we have eaten. I’ll enjoy one last family dinner and then I will pack my things and I will go.

I watch quietly as everyone chats and the children play and occasionally misbehave as children do. My child won’t be joining them. That probably breaks my heart most of all. I catch Mom watching me in turn with a sad expression. She knows. I know she knows.