Teen Wolf: Second Howl

I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

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Lucas's Perspective

The food on the table had long since gone cold, its warmth a memory that had faded like the final notes of a song. Yet, the echo of Susan's words still hung thick in the air between us, lingering like smoke from an old fire that refused to go out. The chandelier above cast a dim, amber glow over the table, its light soft and flickering, as if unsure whether to comfort or expose us. We sat there—two people bound by blood but divided by years of silence—slowly, cautiously, beginning to dismantle the distance one painful memory at a time.

Across from me, Susan held her wine glass delicately, the last sip swirling around like a storm refusing to settle. She didn't drink it. Instead, she placed the glass back down with a kind of thoughtful precision, as if grounding herself in the act. Her eyes were distant again—not cold this time, just heavy with something quieter. Regret, maybe. Or something close to it.

"When I got pregnant with you," she began, her voice smooth but laced with something brittle, "your grandfather told me to get rid of you."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't flinch. She didn't even sound surprised by her own confession. It was like she had practiced saying it a thousand times in her head, but this was the first time she'd actually spoken the words out loud.

"He never said the words directly," she added, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. "But the message was there. Clear as day."

I didn't speak. I didn't move. Some truths are like sharp glass—you don't pick them up unless you're ready to bleed a little.

Susan took in a slow breath, and this time, she looked straight at me. Her eyes didn't waver.

"When I refused… when I chose to keep you," she said softly, "he stopped seeing me as his daughter. At least, not the version of me he was proud of. I became damaged. A problem to be hidden. A Disappointment. From that moment on, I was no longer his perfect little girl. Just a reminder of everything he hated."

She paused, and in the quiet, I could almost hear the crumbling of something ancient. A wall, maybe. Or a myth.

"And after that," she continued, her voice quieter now, "I was little more than an afterthought. Just like Jenny."

I nodded slowly, pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. It didn't make it right. It didn't erase the years or soften the hard edges of abandonment. But it helped make sense of it. Why she left me at the orphanage. Why she stayed away. Why I never heard a single word from her until all the damage had already been done.

Susan leaned forward, her elbows resting gently on the edge of the table. She folded her hands together and looked down for a moment, like she was trying to gather the rest of her thoughts before they slipped away.

"After that," she said, "Jenny and I only had each other in this house. I tried to be everything she needed. I really did. But I was young. I was angry. I didn't know how to be a mother, not really. And part of me… a part I don't like admitting exists… was relieved that you weren't here. That you didn't grow up in this house."

She let the words hang there, raw and unvarnished.

"I told myself I was protecting you," she said. "That the orphanage would be kinder to you than this family could ever be. That you'd have a better shot without us. But if I'm being honest, I was lying to myself. I didn't save you, Lucas. I abandoned you. And I convinced myself it was mercy."

There was nothing I could say in that moment, and maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe she didn't need absolution—just acknowledgment.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, giving the truth room to breathe.

Then, finally, I spoke.

"If it makes you feel any better," I said carefully, "I didn't have a bad time in the orphanage. Richard… he was the best father I could've asked for. He wasn't perfect. He was tough, sure—strict, even—but always fair. Always honest. Strong, in that quiet way that doesn't need to prove itself. He believed in doing the right thing, even when it cost him. Especially when it cost him. He never turned his back on anyone who needed him."

Susan's lips curled into a small, tentative smile. It didn't erase the sadness in her eyes, but it softened it.

"Will you tell me more about him?" she asked gently. "And about your childhood?"

I nodded, pushing my plate aside and leaning forward slightly, feeling the weight of my memories settle into my chest.

"He raised me like I was his own," I said. "Never once made me feel like I didn't belong. We didn't have much, but he gave me everything that mattered. He used to take me on hunting trips when I got old enough ."

Susan exhaled slowly. "Your grandfather was a hunter too," she said. "For all his… many flaws, he was a great shot. Had an entire study filled with trophies—antlers, pelts, mounted heads. I used to hate walking past them as a kid. After he died, I had them all moved into storage. Couldn't stand the way those glass eyes followed me through the hall."

I gave a short nod. "Richard never kept trophies. He said killing for pride was just another kind of cowardice. Hunting, to him, was about balance. Responsibility. Culling invasive predators, managing populations, protecting fragile ecosystems. He said if you were going to take a life, you better respect it."

For the first time that night, Susan's smile looked real. Whole. Not tinged with sadness or shadowed by regret.

"He sounds like a great man," she said.

"He was," I replied. I looked down at my plate—empty now, but still holding the shape of a shared meal. "In a way… he still is. Everything I am… started with him."

And just like that, something shifted in the room. It wasn't a grand revelation or a dramatic tear-filled reunion. But something softened. Something changed.

We sat there, not quite as mother and son, not in the traditional sense—but as two people trying to rebuild a bridge that neither of us had ever really crossed. Maybe it would never be whole. Maybe there would always be cracks in the foundation. But for once, I didn't feel like a stranger in this house.

Not entirely.