Page 82 of Run Omega Run
"I joined because we needed the money originally," I said slowly, working through thoughts that hadn't fully crystallized until spoken aloud. "But we don't need it anymore. So, I'll give it to the people who helped us survive these past few years. Bobby, the shopkeeper who brought us food when we had nothing, the neighbors who bought cupcakes from our table, all the people who saw children in need and chose to help rather than look away."
Susie's face brightened with approval, her smile carrying a sense of satisfaction. "That's a good idea," she said simply, but her tone conveyed pride that made my chest warm with affection.
The mist began to lift as dawn strengthened, revealing a city that bore scars of earthquake and fire, but also signs of determined recovery. I had to win this marathon... not just for personal achievement, but for everyone who'd believed in our family's ability to survive and thrive despite everything that had tried to destroy us.
Taking a breath, I assessed the environment, watching the other runners getting ready with their families and packs beside them. Every one of us was running for more than ourselves; wewere running in remembrance for someone we loved, for the money that could help feed our families or those in dire need. No matter who won today, every step was worthwhile.
My fingers worked the laces of my running shoes, pulling them tight and double-knotting them, though they trembled at the task. The cold morning air made each exhale visible in small puffs that reminded me of the mist that had clung to our mansion grounds just an hour earlier.
In front of me, the starting line stretched before me, marked by banners that snapped in the light breeze and timing equipment that would measure our efforts in precise digital increments. Runners of every age and fitness level surrounded me, some bouncing on their toes with nervous energy while others stretched with a focus that spoke of experience. The collective scent of anticipation mixed with warming muscles and morning coffee created an atmosphere thick with potential energy waiting to be released.
The butterflies from earlier had multiplied into what felt like an entire ecosystem of winged creatures testing the limits of my internal organs. I pressed a hand against my abdomen, trying to will the nervous energy into something more manageable, more useful, but it was no use; it wouldn’t ease until I started running and applied focus to every step rather than what this marathon meant to me.
Even though we no longer needed the money, the need to win burned just as fiercely, perhaps more so, because now it carried meaning that transcended necessity. This was for Mom, whose ashes rested beneath the weeping willow in our garden but whose influence continued shaping every decision I made about love, family, and the courage required to keep moving forward when everything familiar had been stripped away.
Movement in the crowd caught my attention, and I turned to see familiar faces that made my heart swell with emotion. All thechildren, the orphanage kids and lost girls alike, had positioned themselves behind barriers with handmade signs that must have been created in secret collaboration during the days leading up to this moment.
"Run for Mama" read one poster, the letters carefully formed in Denson's precise handwriting but decorated with Dylan's artistic nature. Another proclaimed, "You Can Do It" in Tomas's somewhat uneven script. Even Loubie Lou had contributed, her small handprint pressed in purple paint, my mom's favorite color, alongside a drawing that looked to be me running, though it looked more like a stick figure with long legs.
But it was seeing the lost girls that stopped my breath entirely, their faces bright with health and excitement in ways that would have seemed impossible just months ago. The hollow cheeks and haunted expressions that had defined their arrival had been replaced by a vibrant energy that belonged to teenagers who'd rediscovered their capacity for joy. Their skin had lost the gray pallor of malnutrition and abuse, now showing a rosy flush that spoke of proper nutrition and safety accepted as being permanent.
Sara bounced on her toes with enthusiasm as she taught cheerleading moves to the children who'd never experienced the luxury of organized school spirit. Her blonde hair caught the morning sunlight as she demonstrated arm movements that the younger kids attempted to mirror with varying degrees of success and maximum enthusiasm.
"Give me an H!" she called out, her voice carrying across the pre-race noise, which made several nearby runners turn to watch the impromptu performance.
"H!" shouted the children, their responses uncoordinated but delivered with heart.
Maya had positioned herself beside the younger girls. She'd helped design the signs with careful attention to colorcoordination. Whereas Emma held Rachel's hand while they practiced the cheer movements, both girls laughed with genuine delight.
Lisa and Jennifer stayed at the group's edges, their protective instincts still clear but now applied to ensuring everyone could see rather than scanning for threats that might emerge from adult attention.
As I watched the lost girls teaching the orphanage children, the older kids protecting the younger ones, all contributing to a celebration that honored this achievement, something shifted in my understanding of what this marathon represented. This wasn't just about honoring Mom's memory, though that remained important beyond measure, and this wasn't just about helping the people who'd helped us survive, though that motivation still drove my desire to win. This was about proving that families forged from crisis and choice could create joy that transcended their origins in trauma and loss. This was about running not just for the past, but for the future these children deserved; one where their capacity for happiness could flourish without the shadow of survival anxiety that had once defined their daily existence.
The race official's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing the final minutes before the starting gun would fire and transform all this anticipation into action.
I seized the opportunity to stretch, rolling my shoulders and loosening muscles that had grown tight with nervous tension despite all of Cole's careful reminders about proper warm-up procedures. My hamstrings protested slightly as I bent forward, but soon eased with movement.
From somewhere in the crowd of spectators, I caught sight of Cole's familiar figure. He watched my stretching routine with pride. He nodded slightly. He had never offered empty reassurances or false confidence, so when he indicated approval,it meant my body was ready for the physical demands I was about to place on it. That medical validation settled something anxious in my chest, replacing nervous energy with focused determination that could sustain me over twenty-six point two miles.
Bennett materialized beside me. "We're positioned along the route," he said quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to my ears despite the surrounding noise. "Dante's got the early water stations covered, Angus will be at the halfway mark where the course gets challenging, and Cole's handling medical support wherever you might need it most."
The careful planning that had gone into their positioning made my chest warm. It spoke of love expressed through preparation.
As Bennett melted back into the crowd to take his own position along the route, I reached up to touch the small photograph pinned to my running shirt. Mom's face smiled back at me from the protective plastic covering, her expression captured during one of the rare moments when pain hadn't dominated her features. The image showed her in the orphanage garden, surrounded by children who'd learned to trust her gentle hands and patient love, her lavender scent almost visible in the way wildflowers seemed to reach toward her presence.
My fingers trembled slightly against the photograph's edges, not from cold or nervous energy but from the pressure of carrying her memory with me. She'd never had the opportunity to run marathons, her body consumed by illness long before I'd discovered my own capacity for distance running. But she'd understood the importance of pushing beyond perceived limitations, of testing yourself against challenges that seemed impossible until you proved they weren't.
"I'm doing this for you," I whispered to her image, the words lost in the crowd noise but carrying personal significance thatneeded no external validation. "For everyone who helped us survive, and for all the children who need to see that broken families can become beautiful ones if you're willing to work for it."
