Page 2 of Hero Daddy

When I opened them, I caught my reflection in the small mirror by the door. Just my face this time, not my body. My eyes looked different. Determined.

"Enough," I said again, but this time the word had teeth.

I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, clipped my keys to the tiny carabiner on my leggings, and checked that my phone was secure. Each movement felt deliberate, as if I were assembling armor for battle.

The hallway outside my apartment was empty, the worn carpet muffling my footsteps as I walked toward the elevator. Mrs. Fortescue's yappy chihuahua barked from behind her dooras I passed, the sound fading as the elevator doors closed in front of me.

The descent to the lobby felt like dropping into cold water—a jolt followed by a slow adjustment. My heart raced as if I'd already been running. By the time the doors opened again, I'd nearly talked myself out of going three times.

The street stretched before me, sidewalks cracked but navigable, streetlights just beginning to flicker on. If I’d set off when I’d meant to, the sun would still be up. But I’d dawdled and delayed and now it was starting to get dark. Ironridge Park was fifteen blocks away—a distance I'd driven countless times but never walked. By the time I got there, it would be night.

Still, I had to get moving.

My new shoes made a satisfying sound against the concrete, a rhythm that seemed to say move-forward, move-forward.

A group of teenagers passed me, laughing about something on one of their phones. They didn't even glance my way. A dog walker with three mismatched mutts nodded as we crossed paths. No one stared. No one pointed. No one cared that Daliah Matthews was wearing workout clothes in public. I'd built this moment up in my head for so long, imagined the judgment waiting for me outside these apartment walls. But the world was busy with its own concerns. I was just another person on the sidewalk.

A flicker of hope bloomed in my chest, fragile, but bright.

***

BythetimeIgot to Ironridge Park, my heart was already hammering against my ribs. The park entrance was grand for a city green space – wrought-iron gates with ornate curlicues. Beyond them, a wide path wound beneath ancient oaks whosebranches reached across to create a canopy, their new spring leaves a delicate green against the darkening sky.

April had decided to show off tonight. The air hung unseasonably warm around me, thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming magnolias. Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling—the smoky scent made my stomach tighten with hunger despite the anxiety churning there.

Another jogger breezed past me through the gates, all lean muscle and practiced efficiency. She wore bright pink shorts that didn't ride up her thighs and a matching tank top that revealed arms defined by what I imagined were years of disciplined exercise. We occupied different universes.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, checking again that my phone was secure in my pocket. The clock showed 8:17 PM. Plenty of time before the park closed at 10. Too much time to fill with movement.

"Just go," I whispered to myself, the words more breath than sound.

I thought about Mrs. Henderson and her "helpful" suggestion. About Trina and the cake slice. About every time I'd avoided pools in summer and beaches on vacation. About the way men's eyes slid past me to find my thinner friends.

My legs felt heavy, like they'd been filled with concrete instead of muscle and bone. The new running shoes, which had felt so right in my apartment, now seemed to glow neon, broadcasting my amateur status to everyone.

A couple walked by, arms linked, both of them slender and comfortable in their skin. The woman—blonde, petite—laughed at something her partner said, the sound bright and free. I wondered if she'd ever stood frozen at a park entrance, terrified of being seen.

I clutched my phone, finger hovering over the Uber app. I could be home in five minutes, back in the safety of myapartment where no one could see me struggle and sweat. Where I could change back into my oversized t-shirt and worn yoga pants, the ones I lounged in but never actually did yoga in.

No. No more excuses.

I took a deep breath and stepped through the gates.

The crunch of gravel beneath my new running shoes sounded deafening to my ears, as if announcing my presence to everyone in the park. I had to remind myself that no-one cared what I was doing. I kept my eyes down, watching the white and blue Nike logos move forward, one after the other. Left, right, left, right. The simplest action in the world, suddenly felt the hardest.

The path split ahead. One route headed toward a playground, now mostly empty as dinner time approached, the other curved toward a small lake at the center of the park. I chose the lake path, drawn to the idea of water.

I moved stiffly at first, hyperaware of how my body moved. My thighs brushed against each other with each step. My arms didn't swing with natural ease but hung awkwardly, as if I'd forgotten how to use them. I imagined critical eyes on my jiggling thighs and arms, on the way my breasts bounced slightly despite the sports bra that had cost more than I'd wanted to spend.

Near the water's edge, where a mother duck was patiently guiding her fluffy brood, something bright blue glinted. A plastic bottle cap, discarded carelessly. My stomach gave a little lurch. I pictured one of the ducklings, curious and indiscriminate, trying to swallow it. The thought was a tiny stab of distress, sharp enough to momentarily pierce through my own fog of anxiety. Before I could second-guess the impulse or worry if anyone was watching me make an awkward detour, I veered slightly off the path, snatched up the offending piece of plastic, and shoved it deep into the small pocket of my leggings. I’d find a bin later.

A memory flooded back—seventh grade gym class, running the mile. I'd come in last, face flushed red not just from exertion but from the humiliation of everyone watching me lumber around the final bend. Jason Meyers had mooed as I passed. The teacher had pretended not to hear.

I shook the memory away. I was twenty-seven now, not twelve. Jason Meyers was probably bald and selling insurance somewhere.

The path curved gently, and as I followed it, the lake came into view—a decent-sized body of water with a fountain in the center, throwing a plume of water into the air that caught the last of the evening light. Ducks paddled lazily near the edges, unbothered by the humans circling their domain.

I checked my phone—I'd been jogging for seven minutes. It felt like an hour.

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