Chapter 20

First came the school disaster. I walked into the meeting with Jaya strapped to my chest in a baby sling, a half-eaten granola bar in one hand, and my hoodie inside-out. There were at least thirty other parents. All of them looked...fresh. Composed. Lipstick-ed. There was one dad with a man bun and a tailored blazer that made me feel like a war refugee.

Aliya’s teacher started with a presentation. Maya’s teacher passed around feedback forms. Jaya started chewing on my hair. Meanwhile, I tried to look like I wasn’t about to faint from the smell of someone’s lavender-scented cardigan beside me.

Then I heard it.

“Mommy! Mommy, Maya says you were an assassin!”

Aliya’s voice echoed across the room. Heads turned. The woman next to me blinked. Her child gasped.

I smiled like an escaped convict. “Haha, kids and their imaginations.”

“Maya said you shot ALL the bulls-eyes at the festival. Even the dads couldn’t do it!” Aliya added, pointing with a bright red crayon.

A man in the back muttered, “Is she ex-special forces?”

Another parent whispered, “That explains the calves.”

I pulled my hood up over my head and laughed nervously. “I'm just… you know. Gifted at foam darts.”

Thankfully, the teachers steered the conversation back toward curriculum and reading levels. I practically sprinted out of there the moment it ended, cheeks burning, Jaya chewing my hoodie string like it was a lollipop.

Then came the gym.

I had exactly two hours to kill before pickup and I wanted—needed—to sweat. My body had finally begun accepting movement. I could jog four minutes without seeing the spirit realm. I was determined.

I walked into the local fitness center called “Iron Den.” Red flags? Everywhere. But at least it was different from the last gym.

The man behind the counter was a tank. No neck, full beard, biceps like over-inflated balloons. Tattoos. Skull rings. Dog tags. And a nametag that said, in all seriousness: "BLAZE."

“First time here?” he asked with a grin that somehow reached his deltoids.

“Yeah. Just trying to… get back in shape,” I muttered, adjusting my sports bra for the twentieth time.

“Gotcha. I’ll give you a private intro session,” he said, too friendly. “You’ll love my style. Old Navy bootcamp mixed with motherly motivation. For my ladies, I call it: ‘MILF Mode.’”

He winked.

I blinked.

MILF MODE?

“Right. Sure. Let’s MILF,” I muttered sarcastically.

He started me off on basic warm-ups. All fine. Then squats. Lunges. Planks. Then he “adjusted” my back posture by pressing down right between my shoulders—aka boob adjacent. Twice.

I warned him with a look.

He chuckled. “I get handsy when I help. Part of the package.”

“Hands off the package, Blaze,” I gritted.

Then came the final straw.

“Let’s try some punching drills,” he said, tossing me a pair of gloves. “Imagine you’re hitting your ex, or a bad boss. Anyone who wronged you.”

That list was long.

He held up the pad. “Now hit me like you mean it.”

I did.

CRACK.

Blaze flew backward. Like, actually flew. The pad slammed into his chest and knocked him clean off his feet. He landed on the mat with a grunt, blinking up at the ceiling in absolute shock.

The entire gym went silent.

A teenager on a treadmill gasped. A woman lifting dumbbells whispered, “She’s the MILF Terminator.”

I dropped my gloves, staring at my hand. “What the hell…?”

Blaze groaned. “Ma’am… are you… military police?”

“No,” I said, shocked, then added, “I’m just really, really pissed off.”

He gave me a thumbs up from the floor. “Respect.”

By the time I got home, Maya and Aliya had already learned about my gym knockout from the neighbor’s kid who posted it online. It got seventy-two likes in one hour.

When I opened the door, Maya looked up from her cereal and asked, “Mom… are you in witness protection?”

Aliya added, “Are you John Wick?”

I sighed, sat down, and tried to act casual. “I’m just your mom. Who shops for Tupperware and occasionally punches a Navy veteran across the gym.”

Later that night, after the chaos calmed, I got a text from Jhing Jhing:

"We saw the video. Blaze is telling people you’re the ‘Iron Mama.’ Should I start selling shirts?”

Mylene replied in the group chat:

“Only if she punches someone at the next PTA meeting too.”

I laughed until I nearly choked on my tea. Jaya giggled in her high chair, tossing Cheerios like confetti.

And for the first time in a long while, I realized something deep and weirdly comforting:

I may not know who I am anymore. But I’m not weak. And I’m definitely not done.

Tomorrow? Gym again.

But this time, Blaze wears padding.

Five months had passed since I’d woken up in this body—a stranger’s skin, a different name, a life that had never been mine… yet now, every crack of it bore my fingerprints.

The kids were finally in a rhythm—Maya learning chess at school, Aliya hosting tea parties for ants in the garden, and little Jaya now waddling around like a gremlin with a hunger for peanut butter and chaos.