Page 78 of Run Omega Run
"You have such beautiful hair," she told Rachel during one of these sessions, her fingers working gentle patternsthat transformed tangled strands into something worthy of celebration. "It's growing so healthy and strong. Just like you."
The metaphor wasn't subtle, but it didn't need to be. These children understood that healing happened in layers, that some recovery was visible and measurable while other growth remained internal and harder to quantify. But every slight improvement—physical strength returning, nightmares becoming less frequent, laughter coming more easily—represented a victory worth celebrating.
My pack had embraced the chaos with an enthusiasm that surprised even me. Bennett had adapted to accommodate multiple teenage girls' schedules, his planning focus shifting from his nine-to-five job to complex family logistics that required entirely different organizational skills. He'd become an expert at mediating bathroom schedules, managing shopping lists that included fourteen different preferences for personal care products, and ensuring that every child's individual needs were met.
Dante's natural nurturing had found perfect expression in feeding a family large enough to appreciate his culinary ambitions. The professional-grade kitchen that had once prepared meals for four now produced feasts that could accommodate us all.
Angus delighted in the constant activity, his bulk of a frame finding space in every room where children gathered. His storytelling gifts had expanded to include Emma, and the two of them contributed multiple voices, and elaborate plots that could coax laughter from even the most traumatized listeners. The lost girls had originally been intimidated by his size, but his gentle spirit and protective instincts had gradually won their trust and affection.
Cole's medical expertise had extended naturally into ongoing health monitoring that felt more like concerned family carethan clinical assessment. He'd become expert at recognizing when someone needed extra attention, when nightmares were becoming problematic, when physical healing required different approaches. His competence provided a stability that allowed everyone else to focus on emotional recovery rather than worrying about medical complications.
At the center of all this activity, I'd found myself occupying a role that felt both natural and overwhelming... the pack Omega. I was the gravitational center around which everything else orbited. My strawberries and cream scent had become the household's emotional barometer, shifting with my moods in ways that provided nonverbal communication about the family's overall emotional climate.
The children sought me out for comfort, for guidance, for the particular reassurance that came from someone who'd chosen them, rather than accepting them by obligation.
But beneath all this domestic success, beneath the joy of watching traumatized children begin to heal and flourish, ran a current of grief that hadn't been properly addressed. Mom's ashes sat in an urn on my dresser, waiting for the funeral ceremony that would allow me to say goodbye, to honor her life and sacrifice in ways that honored omega traditions and personal love.
I'd been putting off the funeral planning, telling myself that everyone needed time to settle, that adding funeral grief to ongoing trauma recovery was too much for our fragile family to handle. But the truth was simpler and more selfish... I wasn't ready to say goodbye, wasn't ready to make her death feel final and irreversible.
Yet she deserved better than to remain in limbo while I processed emotions I didn't want to face. She deserved a proper funeral, surrounded by the family she'd helped me build,honored according to traditions that celebrated her life rather than mourning her death.
So I sat there, looking over the kitchen table as the funeral planning materials looked like pieces of a puzzle I wasn't ready to solve, with each element disproportionate to its physical size. Lavender sachets in varying sizes, their purple fabric chosen to honor Mom's favorite color. River stones collected by the children from the stream that ran behind the mansion's grounds, each one smooth and perfect for the ceremonial circle that would surround her urn. Salt crystals in a chipped bowl that had somehow survived the fire, rescued from the orphanage ruins by Bennett, who'd understood their significance even when I'd been too grief-stricken to explain our traditions.
This should have been simple. I'd helped plan funerals before, understood the symbolic importance of each element in creating a proper passage from life to memory. Salt for the tears that honored love, lavender for the peace that transcended earthly suffering, river stones for the strength that endured beyond individual existence, purple ribbon for the beauty that connected all spirits to their essential nature.
But understanding traditions and applying them to my mother's death were utterly distinct challenges. Every symbolic element felt inadequate when weighed against the magnitude of who I was trying to honor.
"You don't have to do this alone," Susie said quietly, settling into the chair across from me. Her wild red hair had been pulled back in a messy ponytail that somehow looked deliberately stylish, and her lemon scent carried undertones of determined support that spoke of teenage wisdom applied to adult grief.
Her presence was exactly what I needed, someone who'd known Mom personally, who'd experienced her maternal care, and who understood the loss as profound. Susie had been at the orphanage long enough to witness the daily acts of lovethat had characterized my mother's approach to caring for our forgotten children, the gentle strength that had made even the most traumatized arrivals believe they deserved protection and affection.
"I keep forgetting things," I admitted, my voice cracking slightly as I tried to maintain composure that felt increasingly fragile. "And everything feels too important to mess up."
She reached across the table to steady my fingers when they started shaking, her touch warm and certain in ways that tied me to the present moment. "She would have wanted something simple," she said, echoing my own thoughts with the intuitive understanding that made our bond feel more like a biological family than a chosen connection. "Not perfect, just... honest. Real."
Her words carried a particular wisdom that came from someone who'd learned to see past surface presentations to essential truths beneath. Mom had never cared about elaborate ceremonies or expensive displays. Her values had been rooted in authenticity, in making sure that every gesture carried genuine meaning rather than empty tradition.
"Tell me about the cards," Susie requested gently, nodding toward the small white rectangles that I'd been avoiding because they required a commitment to finality I wasn't ready to make. "What are they for?"
I swallowed hard, feeling a lump in my throat that made speaking difficult. "It’s a funeral tradition," I managed, reaching for one card with fingers that still trembled despite her steadying presence. "You write the deceased's name on each card, then place them around the urn during the ceremony. It's supposed to help her spirit recognize the love that's calling her home."
The explanation sounded clinical when spoken aloud, stripped of the emotional burden that made this particular tradition feel both necessary and devastating. How couldsomething as simple as writing her name capture the complexity of who she'd been, the magnitude of what she'd meant to everyone whose life she'd touched?
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
Each letter felt like a farewell and celebration together, marking the end of her physical presence while honoring the love that would outlast mortality.
Susie organized the other materials while I worked on the cards. She tied lavender bundles with purple ribbon, her fingers working with surprising skill to create uniform shapes that would burn evenly during the ceremony.
"She used to make sachets like these," Susie observed, holding up one of the completed bundles to examine her work. "Remember? She'd put them in the laundry baskets so our clothes would smell nice even when we couldn't afford fabric softener."
The memory hit me with unexpected force... Mom's hands working by lamplight after the children were asleep, creating small luxuries from whatever materials she could gather or grow.
"She always found ways to make things beautiful," I said, my voice thick with emotion that threatened to overwhelm the careful composure I'd been maintaining. "Even when we had nothing, she could create something that felt like abundance."
Susie nodded, and her smile carried an understanding that needed no verbal explanation. She'd witnessed those small acts of transformation firsthand, had been the recipient of love that transcended material limitations. Her usual teenage attitude had disappeared, replaced by the mature compassion that trauma sometimes forced young people to develop early.
"The stones look good," she said, arranging the collection of smooth river rocks that would form a protective circle aroundMom's urn during the ceremony. "The kids did a great job picking them."
