Hero Daddy

Chapter 1

F ifty-eight millionth time’s the charm.

I stood in my cramped bedroom, pinching at the soft flesh around my middle with fingers that knew this ritual all too well.

The mirror didn't lie. My reflection stared back at me—curvy, filling out my black leggings in ways the fitness models on the packaging never did, the oversized navy t-shirt doing little to hide what I wanted to conceal.

The workout clothes lay on my bed, arranged in hopeful anticipation for the third time this week.

My apartment in Oakwood was small but min—a postage stamp of independence that sometimes felt more like a cage than freedom.

The bedroom barely fit my full-size bed and dresser, leaving a narrow path to navigate between them.

Through the half-drawn blinds, pale evening light filtered in, catching dust motes that danced in the air.

They moved with more grace than I ever could.

"Today is different," I whispered, the words tasting familiar and hollow on my tongue. I'd been saying them for months.

I turned sideways, sucking in my stomach, then released the breath in a frustrated huff. The memory of yesterday at Glimmer Beauty Salon crawled back into my mind, unwelcome but insistent.

Mrs. Henderson had been a regular for two years. I'd done her nails twice a month like clockwork, listening to stories about her grandchildren and her husband's golf handicap while I painted tiny roses on her ring fingers—her signature look.

"Daliah, honey," she'd said, her voice dripping with that special kind of concern that wasn't concern at all.

Her eyes had scanned me from head to toe as I bent over her hand.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but have you thought about one of those meal delivery services?

My daughter lost thirty pounds on one. I could get you her referral code. "

My hands had frozen, brush hovering above her nail. The salon around me continued its buzz—blow dryers, salon gossip, the chemical smell of perms mixing with floral shampoo scents. But in my bubble with Mrs. Henderson, time stretched like taffy.

"I'm happy with my cooking, thanks," I'd managed, the smile on my face so tight it hurt.

"Just looking out for you, dear. Men like a woman with a little meat on her bones, but . . ." She'd left the rest unsaid, her pointed glance saying everything her words didn't.

I'd finished her nails in silence, the tiny roses looking less like flowers and more like blood drops by the time I was done.

The memory burned fresh tears at the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away roughly, angry at myself for letting her words burrow under my skin. My phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably Mom asking if I'd signed up for that dating app she'd sent me. I ignored it.

I glanced at the clock: 7:42 PM. Ironridge Park closed at 10. There was still time.

My running shoes sat by the door - white and blue Nike Zooms, bought eight weeks ago with birthday money from Dad.

The price tag long gone, but the newness hadn't worn off.

They looked unworn because they were. Three times I'd taken them out of the box, laced them up, even walked to the end of my apartment hallway once.

Each time, something pulled me back—fatigue, a sudden rain shower, a text from a coworker that needed immediate attention.

Excuses, all of them.

I looked at the shoes, then at my reflection again.

The curvy woman in the mirror had chestnut hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, skin that flushed too easily, and eyes that held a familiar disappointment.

Nail technician at Glimmer Beauty Salon by day, Netflix connoisseur by night.

Twenty-seven years old and afraid of a park trail.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the shoes. They were stiff, unbroken. Like me.

I thought about today at the salon. The way Trina, our receptionist, had divided the leftover birthday cake into uneven slices, pushing the smallest one toward me with a knowing look. "Watching your figure, right?" she'd said, not really a question.

I'd taken the small slice and eaten it with deliberate slowness, feeling eyes on me with every bite.

The memory tasted bitter. I sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and slid the shoes onto my feet.

"Enough excuses," I said to the empty room, to the woman in the mirror whose eyes suddenly held something harder than before.

My fingers tugged at the laces, pulling them tight - too tight at first, then loosening them slightly. The shoes hugged my feet in a way that felt foreign. Supportive. Ready.

I stood up, testing their spring. My feet looked different in them, purposeful. Athletic, even if the rest of me didn't feel that way.

My phone buzzed again. I grabbed it, glancing at the text: Mom, as expected. "Did you try that chicken and cauliflower recipe I sent?" I shoved the phone into the small pocket of my leggings without responding.

The apartment felt suddenly stifling—walls too close, air too still. I ran a hand through my ponytail, tightening it, then grabbed my keys from the hook by the door.

"Just a walk," I told myself, lowering the bar, making the hurdle easier to clear. "Just to the park and back. That's all."

But something in me knew it wasn't about the exercise, not really. It was about proving something, to Mrs. Henderson, to Trina, to my mother with her constant "helpful" suggestions. To myself.

My hand hovered over the doorknob. The familiar wave of doubt crashed over me. What if someone I knew saw me? What if I couldn't even make it to the park without getting winded? What if, what if, what if . . .

The questions buzzed like angry bees. I closed my eyes, took a breath that filled my lungs completely.

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 door as 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.

***

B y the time I got 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 whose branches 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.