Photo by Karupu
The Invisible Wings: Brian traced his finger along the rim of his coffee mug, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals into the Austin morning air. From his spot at Mozart’s Coffee Roasters, he could see the sun painting Lady Bird Lake in shades of amber and gold. The early joggers were out, their rhythmic footfalls on the trail below creating a steady drumbeat to accompany the birdsong.
“Daddy, look!” Emma’s voice pierced through his thoughts. His nine-year-old daughter pointed excitedly at a monarch butterfly that had landed on their table. “It’s so pretty!”
Brian smiled, grateful for his weekend custody. These moments with Emma were like oxygen, sustaining him through the lonely weeks between visits. “It sure is, sweetie.”
The butterfly flexed its wings lazily, unaware of its own splendor. Brian pulled out his phone to take a picture, but the notification banner at the top of his screen caught his eye: “No new matches today” – a daily reminder from the dating app he’d installed three months ago.
He locked the screen quickly, but not before Emma noticed his frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, kiddo. Just grown-up stuff.” He forced a smile, but Emma had her mother’s perception.
“Is it about dating?” She took a bite of her chocolate croissant, scattering flakes across the table. “Mom says you should get out more.”
Brian’s chest tightened. Of course Sarah would say that. She’d moved on seamlessly, already engaged to a tech executive who took her to wine country on weekends. Meanwhile, Brian’s dating life was a desert of awkward coffee meetings and ghosted conversations.
“Dating’s complicated, Em.”
“Why? You’re awesome. You make the best pancakes, and you know all about stars, and you can fix anything!”
Brian chuckled, but it felt hollow. If only the women of Austin shared his daughter’s assessment. His last date had been with a yoga instructor who spent the evening talking about her spiritual journey through Nepal. He’d felt hopelessly mundane in comparison, with his stories about software debugging and weekend DIY projects.
The butterfly took flight, dancing on the morning breeze. Emma watched it go, delighted by its graceful departure. “Did you know butterflies can’t see how pretty their wings are?” she asked, her voice full of that matter-of-fact wisdom unique to children.
Brian blinked. “They can’t?”
“Nope. Ms. Rodriguez taught us about it in science class. They can see colors, but they can’t see their own wings properly. Isn’t that weird? They’re so beautiful, but they don’t know it.”
Something about her words caught in Brian’s throat. He thought about all the times he’d stared at his dating profile, second-guessing every word. About how he measured himself against Sarah’s new fiancé, against every successful man who seemed to navigate life with effortless charm.
“Hey, Dad?” Emma was looking at him intently now. “Are you like the butterfly?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, not seeing how cool you are? Because you are cool. Even Joey at school said he wishes his dad knew as much about robots as you do.”
Brian felt his eyes burn. When had his daughter become so wise?
A new notification pinged on his phone. Another dating app message, probably. But for the first time in months, he didn’t feel compelled to check it immediately. Instead, he reached across the table and stole a bite of Emma’s croissant, earning an indignant “Hey!”
They spent the rest of the morning by the lake, skipping stones and making up stories about the turtles sunning themselves on logs. Brian found himself laughing – really laughing – for the first time in what felt like forever.
That evening, after dropping Emma back at Sarah’s, Brian didn’t head straight home to his empty apartment. Instead, he drove to Mount Bonnell, climbing the steps as the sun began its descent over the hills. Other people were there – couples, families, friends – all sharing the same view but seeing it differently.
He pulled out his phone and opened the dating app, but instead of checking his matches, he went to edit his profile. He deleted the carefully crafted description he’d written to sound impressive. In its place, he wrote:
“Single dad. Software developer. Amateur astronomer. Makes decent pancakes. Still learning to see my own wings.”
As he drove home under a sky full of stars, another monarch butterfly crossed his path, catching the last light of day on its wings. Brian smiled, thinking how strange it was that sometimes it takes a nine-year-old and an insect to teach you about your own worth.
The next morning, when his phone buzzed with a new notification, he didn’t feel that familiar surge of anxiety. Whatever it was – match or no match – he was beginning to understand that his value wasn’t in the swipes or the likes or the carefully curated profiles.
It was in pancake Sundays and robot stories and the way his daughter’s eyes lit up when he named the constellations. It was in all the things he’d never thought to celebrate about himself, all the colors he couldn’t see but others could.
Like a butterfly with invisible wings, he’d been beautiful all along. He was just finally learning to believe it.