Page 43 of Hero Daddy

The blonde doll laughed—a sharp, mocking sound I created with my own adult voice, yet it echoed across years, carrying the exact cadence of a particular girl from seventh grade. "Look at her! She's so big she'd break the jump rope!"

The other dolls in the circle joined in the taunting, their voices growing more vicious, more specific. "No one wants to be on your team." "Did you see her trying to run in gym class?" "My mom says it's because she has no self-control."

Chad remained silent in his rocking chair, but I felt the weight of his attention, his careful witnessing of what had become not play but confession. The script pouring through me was too precise, too painful to be invention. These were real words, real wounds, preserved with perfect fidelity by some archival system in my brain that had never processed or released them.

"Please," the red-haired doll—my doll—begged in that small voice. "I just want to be included."

"Well, you can't be," the blonde doll responded with casual cruelty. "No one likes you. No one wants you around. You should just go home and stay there."

My hands were shaking now, the doll play becoming increasingly distressing as the excluded doll curled in on herself while the circle of others continued their game, deliberately turning their backs. I wasn't merely reenacting a single incident but a pattern, a childhood soundtrack of rejection that had played on repeat through middle school and beyond.

"If you lost weight, maybe we'd let you play," one doll said in a syrupy, false-kind voice. "But probably not, because you'd still be weird."

"And ugly," added another.

"And stupid," said a third.

The pile-on continued, each insult hitting closer to home, each one drawn from actual memories rather than imagination. My breathing had become shallow, my vision blurring slightly as Imaintained the terrible pantomime. The red-haired doll grew smaller in my hands, more hunched, more dejected with each cruel word.

Something hot and painful swelled in my chest – decades-old shame and hurt rising like magma, threatening to crack the adult composure I'd spent years constructing. The pressure built until finally, with a small, broken sound, I dropped all the dolls, my hands flying to cover my face as the first sob tore free.

"I just wanted to be included," I gasped through fingers pressed against my mouth, no longer speaking for the doll but for myself—my childhood self, my teenage self, perhaps even my adult self still carrying that wound. "I just wanted to be enough."

The dam broke. Tears poured down my face, my shoulders shaking with the force of sobs I couldn't contain. I curled forward, making myself small on the nursery rug, surrounded by the scattered dolls that had somehow unlocked this ancient grief I'd never properly mourned.

I was vaguely aware of movement, and then Chad was there, kneeling beside me. His strong arms gathered me up as if I weighed nothing, lifting me against his chest. He carried me to the rocking chair and settled with me cradled in his lap, my face pressed against his shoulder, my legs tucked up like a child's.

"Shhh, Little One. Daddy's here," he murmured, one large hand stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. "Let it out, sweet girl. You're safe with me."

The gentle motion of the rocking chair created a rhythm beneath his words—back and forth, steady and sure. I cried against his shirt, years of stored pain releasing in hot tears and hiccupping sobs. He held me through all of it, his embrace never faltering, his hands steady and warm as they stroked my hair, my back, offering silent comfort.

Gradually, the storm of emotion began to subside, leaving me wrung out but somehow lighter. Chad continued to rock me, hisheartbeat strong and even under my ear. When my breathing had steadied enough for speech, he gently lifted my chin with one finger, looking into my tear-ravaged face with a tenderness that threatened to start the tears flowing again.

"That was not your fault, Daliah," he said, his voice firm but infinitely gentle. "Those girls were cruel, and what they did came from their own unhappiness, not from anything you did or were. You did not deserve that." His thumb brushed away a lingering tear from my cheek. "You are beautiful, inside and out, and anyone who couldn't see that was blind."

The absolute conviction in his voice, the unshakable certainty in his eyes, made something long-clenched inside me begin to relax. This wasn't empty reassurance or obligatory comfort—Chad meant every word, believed it down to his bones.

"How can you be so sure?" I whispered, my voice rough from crying.

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. "Because I see you, Daliah. I've seen you from the first moment—not just your beauty, but your heart. Your courage. Your capacity for joy, even after it's been wounded." He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Your Daddy sees you, my precious girl. And you are perfect."

Perfect. Not despite my flaws, my wounds, my softness, but somehow including them, encompassing them. Perfect as a whole, complex being. The word washed through me like cool, clean water, soothing places long inflamed.

I lifted my face to his, a wordless request he immediately understood. His lips met mine in a kiss unlike any we'd shared before—not the hungry claiming of our passion nor the polite public affection of our lunch date, but something sacred and healing. His hands cradled my face as if it were made of the most delicate porcelain, his thumbs brushing away the last of my tears.

When we parted, I felt altered—not magically healed of all my insecurities, but somehow more whole. The cruel voices from the past hadn't been erased, but they'd been challenged by a stronger truth: I was seen, I was wanted, I was enough.

I nestled closer against Chad's chest, my body fitting perfectly against his larger frame, contained and protected by his strength. His arms tightened around me, a promise of safety that required no words.

Outside this room, the world continued its demanding pace. But here, in this sanctuary of soft lights and gentle hands, time moved differently. Here, there was space for old wounds to be exposed to healing air, for broken pieces to begin knitting back together. Here, there was Chad's unwavering belief in me—a foundation stronger than the childhood cruelties that had shaped me.

"Thank you," I whispered against his neck, inadequate words for the gift he'd given me.

He pressed another kiss to my hair, rocking us gently. "Always, Little One," he murmured. "Always."

Chapter 8

Two Months Later

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