Page 15 of Pucking With My Head

I nodded. None of my brothers kept a job for very long; that was one of the reasons none of them had lived away from the house for longer than a few months.

“Now, don’t make that face, Beth. They’re good boys—you know how hard it is to find work nowadays. Not many people are hiring and all that.”

I bit my tongue.

People in town were hiring; they just weren’t hiring man children who were more interested in partying and smoking pot than working. They had all been fired multiple times for turning up late to jobs repeatedly.

“I’m not saying anything, but I am managing to hold down two jobs and take classes at the same time.”

My dad sighed, a long-suffering sound. This wasn’t a new disagreement. “If you were closer to home, you wouldn’t haveto do that. You know we would pay for you to go to the local college.”

“Let’s not get into this again,” I said as we pulled up in front of the house. The last thing I needed before spending any extended time with my family was a reminder of their stark favoritism.

There was loud, boisterous shouting emanating from the living room. I turned to my dad, who was behind me, and he shrugged. “Some new video game,” he explained.

It was like my brothers were teenagers, not grown-ass alphas.

My dad Frank was standing in the kitchen, a bottle of beer in his hand as I walked in. “Beth!” he greeted me, pulling me in for a hug. “Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How are you? You look skinny. You should move back home.”

“I’ll be back after I finish college,” I said, even though, deep down, I doubted that. “Hi, Pa.” Pulling away, I glanced around the kitchen.

“Boys! Say hello to your sister!” Pa shouted in the direction of the living room.

None of them extracted themselves from the video game they were playing, nor did I expect them to. They just shouted a few murmured greetings.

Exactly the warm welcome I was expecting.

Turning around, I took in the kitchen.

It was filthy.

The backsplash tiles were caked in dirt, and there was a slight smell to the place. I expected that, though. Ever since Mom died, I was the only person who deep-cleaned the house. My fathers thought cleaning consisted of clearing away a little clutter, and that was it.

“I got the ingredients to make your mom’s meat loaf, if you feel up to it?” Dad asked hopefully, rubbing my back lightly. “It’s been a while since we had a damn good home-cooked meal.”

My family didn’t cook or clean.

“Sure.” My voice was tight.

I could have said I was exhausted, that I wanted to rest after my flight, but I knew they would pretend to be okay with that, only to make subtle digs and comments when eating takeout later.

It wasn’t worth the energy.

So, before I could even sit down, I was rolling up my sleeves to cook. As I started forming the meat, I got to work scrubbing the countertops.

This was why I avoided coming home at all costs. My brothers and fathers had never adapted to the loss of my mother.

She was a warm, kind, house-proud omega. She showed her love by caring for everyone in the house, cleaning, cooking, and keeping everything in perfect order.

When she died, I took over, partially because I felt like my family was falling apart, and despite being a child, I thought if I could do what Mom did, it would make things better.

News flash—it didn’t.

I just became the go-to for all domestic labor in my family.

The food was ready after three hours. Not once did any of my brothers offer to help. In fact, Jake and Danny both popped into the kitchen at various points to complain that they were hungry and waiting on food.

They didn’t even bother to say hello to me properly.

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