Chapter 8 - My Mother’s Gym
News about the plane spread everywhere.
Some headlines were accurate.
Others called me:
THE CHAMPION WHO LET A MAN HIT HER.
Commentators debated whether I should have defended myself.
People who had never been slapped at 30,000 feet became experts.
I stopped watching.
Instead, Darnell and I trained.
Not hard.
Smart.
Commission review remained pending.
I underwent updated neurological evaluation.
Normal.
Cleared.
No ongoing symptoms.
The anonymous medical claim collapsed.
Then one doctor asked:
“Why didn’t you hit him?”
I answered:
“Because I knew what it would cost.”
He nodded.
“Did that feel like weakness?”
I thought.
“At first.”
Then:
“No.”
That was new.
I had built an entire identity around responding when threatened.
The cage rewarded action.
Flight 771 rewarded restraint.
Both required discipline.
At the unfinished gym, workers returned after financing froze temporarily.
I paid payroll personally for two weeks.
Then stopped.
Marcus asked why.
“Because I won’t become the new secret lender.”
He understood.
The project needed transparent financing.
We slowed construction.
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Better.
Mom’s name could wait.
