April didn’t want to be here. The air was humid, and chlorine from the pool made her eyes burn. She pulled at a loose thread on her towel, ignoring the conversation unfolding around her. It was always the same, anyway. Hushed voices filled with false concern as they made snide comments about other people’s bodies. Well, now she knew where their daughters learned it.

The endless gossip mingled with squeals from the kiddie pool and the lifeguard’s whistle. It might be forty-five degrees outside, but the air was cleaner, and that pool was heated. She snatched up her water bottle and wove through the clamoring people waiting for an empty lane. Pushed past the women waiting for their aerobics class to start. 

She didn’t look back when Mindy called her name, and the women’s voices halted momentarily to offer their condolences. Two-faced bitches. Her daughter had been too thin, too fat, too loud, too quiet, too perfect for them until giving up was easier than conforming to a target that constantly moved.

She flung the door open. Crisp wind stung her cheeks and gave an excuse for her tears. Not that anyone else was out here. Even the lifeguard’s chair was empty. She tugged on her swim cap and jumped in. The first lap was slow, but she picked up speed until her lungs were bursting for air, limbs trembling with exhaustion. She didn’t need to get even with them. Their own insecurities would always haunt them — and their daughters.

Word: thread | Action: Weaving