VELARA’S POV

The room around me is sterile, cold, and quiet, almost suffocating in its silence. I feel small in this place, even though I know I should be focusing on the life I just brought into the world. My mind drifts between exhaustion and frustration, a strange combination that keeps me from falling asleep.

The oldest one, a woman with tired eyes and an air of weary wisdom, greets me with a simple introduction. “My name’s Kylie,” she says, her voice calm but edged with something I can’t quite place. “Hi,” I respond quietly, “Velara.” She nods in acknowledgment, but it’s her next words that break through the fog of isolation in my mind.

“Her name’s Elysia,” Kylie continues, gesturing toward the younger girl beside her. “Welcome to the shunned mothers’ club,” she says, her voice heavy with irony, followed by a small, sad chuckle. She lowers her gaze to the baby in her arms and sighs deeply. I can see the weight of the sigh in her body, as if the burden she carries goes far beyond the child she holds.

I glance at the baby in her arms, my own child sleeping peacefully beside me. The room is so eerily quiet that it feels like it’s suffocating the life out of me. I try to smile, but it’s hard to muster any joy in the face of everything that’s been taken from us. "But they’re supposed to help," I whisper, my voice thick with frustration, but it sounds empty in this hollow place.

Kylie shakes her head, her eyes distant, as though she’s already said this a thousand times. “They won’t. Trust me, you’re better off getting out as soon as you can,” she tells me, her words blunt and matter-of-fact.

My heart sinks. “But they’re supposed to help…” I repeat, this time the words sounding less like a question and more like a plea for something that will never come.

“They don’t,” she insists. “I’ve been here two days with my baby, and half the time, they don’t even answer when I buzz. Don’t even get me started on food. You’re lucky if you get a tray once a day, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be edible. I haven’t had anything to eat since I got here,” Kylie continues, her voice growing bitter with each word.

She shifts in her bed, her hand reaching down to the foot of it. I watch as she pulls out a small bag, unzips it, and begins rummaging through its contents. She pulls out a granola bar and holds it out toward me. “Here. You must be starving. I was when I first got here, and I came prepared for this,” she says, her tone a mix of practicality and quiet defiance.

I take the granola bar, the sight of food making my stomach growl. It’s not much, but it’s something. “You had a baby before?” I ask, my voice a little unsure, still struggling to wrap my head around the experience.

Kylie shakes her head, her expression softening for a moment. “No, this is my first. My mom was a single mother too. We’re rogues, like you,” she says, her voice steady, though there’s a sadness in her eyes that I can’t ignore.

I unwrap the granola bar, my fingers trembling slightly as I tear it open. The first bite is dry, but it’s food. That’s all that matters. “Boy or girl?” I ask Elysia, who’s sitting quietly on the bed beside Kylie. She’s younger than me, but there’s a shyness in her demeanor, an unease in the way she avoids eye contact. She lifts her head and answers quietly, almost shyly.

“Girl,” Elysia says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yours?”

“Boy,” I reply, my voice filled with pride despite everything. I glance back at Kylie, her eyes now focused on me, watching me closely.

“Thanks,” I mutter, swallowing another bite of the granola bar. “You’re welcome,” Kylie says, her voice soft but insistent. “There’s more in the bag. Just help yourself. I brought extras in case there were other girls who needed food.” She pauses, looking me over carefully, before her eyes narrow in curiosity. “Which pack are you from? Your aura feels pretty strong for a rogue.”

I hesitate, unsure of how much to say. I’m not sure why, but something in Kylie’s eyes makes me want to confide in her, even if only a little. “Alpha blood,” I admit, my voice low, barely above a whisper.

Kylie’s eyes widen in surprise. She raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. “In that case, you don’t have to tell me. I get it. It’s not something you’d want to share with just anyone.” She pauses, glancing at Elysia, who nods in agreement. “Elysia was born rogue, and so was I,” Kylie says softly, her voice holding a strange mixture of sorrow and understanding.

I nod, feeling a deep connection with her, even though we’ve only just met. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you girls living? Do you know of any places for women like us? A refuge, maybe?”

Elysia’s face hardens slightly, her gaze distant. “I know of one, but it’s full. Completely full,” she says, her voice thick with regret. There’s nothing more she can offer. Her words linger in the air like a weight, and I feel the pressure of it.

Kylie shifts slightly, her hand resting lightly on her baby’s back. “I live with my mom and my brother,” she says, the words tinged with a sense of resignation. She looks at me with a small, understanding smile. “It’s not ideal, but it’s all we have.”

“Where are you staying?” Elysia asks, her curiosity genuine but tinged with concern. “Don’t tell me no family would help you?”

I shake my head slowly, the reality of it too much to bear. “No. They wouldn’t. But we’ll be okay,” I say, though the words feel hollow. In truth, I’ve been living in my busted-up station wagon for the last eight months, and that’s only if I’m lucky enough to find a place to park.

I feel the weight of everything that’s happened to us in the past days, weeks, and months. The betrayal, the pain, the endless rejection. But even as I think about the empty space between us and everyone else, I feel a flicker of hope. These two women, Kylie and Elysia, are survivors. They might not have answers, but they have something else: solidarity.

The next day, Kylie continues to share her food, and nothing changes. Not a single nurse comes in to check on us, no food is delivered, and the feeling of being discarded lingers in the air. We are invisible here, shunned for the simple fact that we dared to have children.

But for now, it doesn’t matter. They help me, and I am grateful. Even if the world turns its back on us, I won’t be alone. Not today. Not while I have them.