Page 84 of Run Omega Run
Through the haze of exhaustion and narrowed focus, I spotted a small figure beside the course barriers, wild brown hair barely contained by purple ribbons that matched the color scheme we'd chosen for Mom's funeral. Loubie Lou bounced on her toes, her precious stuffed bunny held high above her head like a banner of encouragement that cut through my fatigue-clouded consciousness.
"Run fast! Bunny says Go!", her voice carried across the noise of struggling runners and concerned spectators.
The sight of her rosy cheeks and bright eyes, evidence of health and happiness that had been impossible during our orphanage days of constant scarcity, sent renewed strength flowing through my exhausted system. This wasn't just about personal achievement or honoring Mom's memory, no, this was about proving to a three-year-old that the people she depended on for security could overcome challenges that seemed impossible, that her trust in adult competence was justified rather than naive.
My stride found a new rhythm as maternal instincts overrode any limitations, love for this precious child providing fuel that had been depleted. If Loubie Lou believed I could complete this marathon, if she'd brought her bunny to encourage, then failure wasn't an option, regardless of what my muscles might be demanding.
But with renewed physical effort came an emotional breakthrough that had been building throughout the race. Memories of Mom's final days rose to the surface. Flashbacks hit like physical blows. Her labored breathing during those last weeks, the way pain medication had made her sleep deeper than natural rest, the gradual weakening that had stolen her vitality one day at a time.
The memory that cut deepest was our last conversation, brief words exchanged. She'd asked about my running, whether I was still training for the marathon despite everything else demanding my attention. I'd assured her it could wait, that taking care of her and the children mattered more than my goals.
"Run for me when I can't anymore," she'd whispered, her voice barely audible. "Show them what omega strength looks like when it's properly supported."
Tears streamed down my face as I remembered those moments. While I'd been unable to protect her, flames had consumed the building and taken her from me in ways that made peaceful death impossible.
The guilt of never saving her drove each painful step forward with desperate intensity. This marathon was penance as much as tribute, proof that I could endure suffering rather than succumbing to comfort when perseverance mattered most.
By now, I’d passed runner after runner. The wall took out several participants on the way. It was when the finish line materialized that my heart skipped a beat. Had I made it? My vision began to blur at the edges, my visual field narrowing to a tunnel that contained only the bright banner stretched across the street and the digital clock that would record my completion time. The ribbon was still intact. Was I the first one here? My legs wobbled beneath me with dangerous instability; my muscles pushed far beyond the point where coordination could be taken for granted.
The crowd's energy intensified as runners appeared behind me, spectators recognizing the particular desperation that characterized final efforts to reach the finish before complete physical collapse. Voices merged into a wall of encouragement that penetrated even my exhaustion-clouded consciousness; strangers invested in my success for reasons that went beyond simple athletic appreciation.
Through the growing noise of celebration and encouragement, the race announcer commentated on the race through to the end. "Approaching the finish line is Heather, running today in memory of her mother and to raise funds for the community that supported her orphanage through their darkest times." The public cheered, chanting my name. Pride mixed with grief in ways that provided final reserves of strength I hadn't known existed.
The finish banner grew larger in my narrowed vision, its bright colors and bold lettering representing the transition from effort to completion, from testing to proof of capability.
I crossed the timing mat, breaking through the ribbon to the cheers of congratulations. The electronic recording of my completion was accompanied by thunderous applause. The crowd's enthusiasm carried genuine appreciation for what my participation represented.
I managed two more steps beyond the finish line before my legs finally refused to continue supporting my weight, exhaustion that had been held at bay, finally overwhelmed my body. The ground rose toward me with inevitable certainty, gravity claiming victory over determination.
Strong arms caught me before I could impact the asphalt, Bennett's familiar strength enveloping me in security that made collapse feel safe rather than catastrophic. His peppermint scent washed over my overheated and exhausted senses like cool water. The solid warmth of his chest provided stability that my own body could no longer generate, support that allowed me to surrender control without fear of truly falling.
"I've got you," he whispered against my hair, picking me up into his arms. "You did it. You bloody well did it, and she would be so proud."
The children materialized around us like a tidal wave of excited voices and reaching hands, their celebration chaotic but carefully managed to avoid overwhelming me. Susie was bright with triumph, and the lost girls were radiant with happiness.
"You won!" Dylan called out, though his understanding of marathon competition remained somewhat unclear. "You actually won!"
Loubie Lou somehow found space in the huddle to press her stuffed bunny against my arm, her contribution to thecelebration. "Bunny says good job," she announced. I laughed and patted Bunny to tell him thanks.
Camera flashes began exploding around us like small fireworks, journalists and official race photographers capturing images that would represent more than athletic accomplishment. A digital board displayed fundraising totals that had grown throughout the race as donations accumulated in response to media coverage of my story. The numbers exceeded every expectation I'd harbored about community generosity, representing resources that would allow me to thank every person who'd extended kindness during our darkest periods.
But more important than financial success was the warmth of being surrounded by family who'd chosen to claim me and support my goals with enthusiasm.
I pressed my face against Bennett's chest, allowing myself for this moment to be held rather than to hold everyone else up. To receive comfort instead of providing it for others who'd learned to depend on my strength. His heartbeat provided a rhythm that helped organize my scattered thoughts, his solid presence offering security that made vulnerability feel safe rather than dangerous.
The marathon was complete, Mom's memory had been honored, and our family had proven that love could create strength sufficient to overcome any obstacle. In Bennett's arms, surrounded by children whose laughter carried promises of futures built from hope rather than mere survival, I finally allowed myself to rest.
