The rec center pool sat still when I walked in, the overhead lights bouncing off the surface. Chlorine hung in the air, thick and sharp. The building was quiet, and I could hear my footsteps as they carried me. I stood in lane three, rolled my shoulders, and slid under. The first push off the wall always cut through whatever was left over from the night before.
I swam down and back repeatedly. I focused on my breathing, the catch of my hands, the drive of my legs until my arms burned and my lungs stretched. In the water, the noise shut up. Bills couldn’t talk to me. The past couldn’t reach me. The future couldn’t demand answers. There was only the next stroke and the next breath.
When I climbed out, water glossed the concrete, and my chest held grief and gratitude at once. My parents put me in lessons at seven, one skill nobody could take, and they cheered so loudly it lived in my ears. After that driver took them, I nearly quit. Every lap felt like a memory.
The water kept me honest. The clock never cared about my story, only my effort. Put the work in, and it shows. No shortcuts. No outswimming time.
I dried off, checked my phone, and saw two texts.
Reagan:
Made it to school safely. You know I’m texting even though you dropped us off. Also, tell Reece to stop leaving lip gloss in the bathroom. It melts when she turns the shower on Hades.
Reece:
Have a good day, Brubbie. Please do not forget to breathe.
I huffed out a breath, and my face relaxed. They didn’t know how much those messages meant to me. They thought it was me being extra. It wasn’t extra. It was proof. I took out my phone and hit call on Coach Peña.
He answered on the third ring. “Rec Center.”
“Aye, Coach P,” I said. “You have them summer and fall hours lined up, or what? I need more lane time and more checks. I don’t like dipping in my savings.”
He sighed. “Morning to you too, Roman. The city cut our budget again. I’m still juggling schedules. I can’t promise anything yet.”
“You got guards who let kids coast. We can restructure the clinics, add beginner sessions, charge parents a little, and bring in more revenue. I can write a plan that will keep kids in the water and money coming in.”
My mind was already building it: dates, pricing, staffing, flyers, and partnerships. I didn’t believe in complaining without constructing. Complaints without solutions turned into habits, and habits turned into excuses.
“You trying to run my pool, Ro?” he asked half-seriously.
“I’m trying to keep these kids from drowning in more than one way. We can teach discipline here or let the block teach it later. You already know how that ends,” I answered.
He went quiet. He knew I had a point, and he knew I wasn’t calling to hustle him. I wasn’t trying to be important. I was trying to be useful.
“Write the plan. I’ll look it over. No promises,” he said finally.
“That’s enough for me. I’ll email it tonight.”
“And, Roman, no side jobs that get your name in a file. Leave the block where it is. I mean that,” he added.
“I hear you,” I said, my jaw getting tight.
Folks stayed preaching consequences I already wore, but never asked about the math—hours cut, groceries up, pride getting taxed when you’re trying to providecleanly. I wasn’t tempted by chaos; I was tired of survival being policed while struggle got ignored. Still, my girls needed me free, present, and uncomplicated, so I stay disciplined. That was love in motion.
After the youth clinic that afternoon, I swung by Self Ridge High to grab the twins. The sun was dropping low, pouring that late-day gold across the lot, and the wind had a cool bite under it. I still wore the rec center on me—chlorine, sweat, rubber—shirt clinging where I’d been moving and mentoring, making sure the kids got seen by somebody decent before the streets started calling their names.
Reagan slid into the back seat, her backpack thumping against the upholstery, mouth already running like she’d been holding her thoughts hostage until she saw me. “Okay, so boom. This group project is irritating me because why I gotta carry folks who don’t read directions? Then Coach Holley talking about he wantsmeto run track. Track, Roman.Me.”
Reece climbed in behind her, quieter, her notebook pressed to her chest like it was valuable and delicate, headphones resting around her neck. She gave me that little nod she always gave—soft, respectful, steady, then buckled her seat belt without being told. That was my Reece.
“You have work to finish?” I asked, pulling out and falling into the flow of after-school traffic.
Reagan nodded, dramatic as ever. “I have an essay due this week. I’ll finish it tonight. I hear my ELA teacher, Ms. Grant, at the senior high school does not play. I’m not trying to have her hand it back covered in red.”
Reece spoke up, her voice light but sure. “Weare annotatingInvictusin English. Our teacher gets very excited when we find strong lines. It reminds me of you at the pool when somebody hits the wall right.”
“Words matter,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “Breath matters too. You throw either one off, everything else follows.”
