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But the brief respite did little to help.
Now, the room felt too small, the dim light casting long shadows.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, its ticking reminding me of how long we’d been at this.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, feeling defeated as I wiped away a tear.
She let out a sigh, sounding tired. “Sofiya, you’re almost nine. You’re supposed to know this stuff by now!”
Her disappointment hung heavy in the air, mixing with the smell of old books.
The feeling of failing her, and myself, weighed me down like a ton of bricks, making me feel small.
Tears blurred my vision as I sniffed hard, trying to hold back the sobs threatening to escape.
I pushed my chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor, and stood up, feeling a surge of frustration and sadness.
“I know you think I’m stupid,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Mom’s expression softened, and she reached out to me, her hand hovering in the air as if she wanted to comfort me but didn’t know how.
“Sofiya, no, sweetie, that’s not true,” she said, her voice gentle now, tinged with regret. “You’re not stupid. You just need to try harder, okay?”
But her words felt hollow, and I turned away, unable to look at her.
“You always say that, but it’s never enough. No matter how hard I try, it’s never good enough for you.”
It’s in everything—the way I play, not enough like a girl; I’m too loud, too energetic, too curious. How I eat, not sitting straight enough, always spilling things, eating too fast, too much. How I’m slow, and how math and I have never been friends. How I prefer books with drawings over classics. How I speak, still making mistakes from time to time. Nothing I do, nothing I am, is enough for her.
Mom’s brows furrowed. “I’m just trying to help you, Sofiya. I want you to do well.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks.
She doesn’t get it.
“No, Mama,” I whispered. “You want me to be perfect. But I’ll never be perfect like you.”
I could sense my mama’s love, but sometimes I wondered if she really … liked me.
Sometimes, her eyes held a dark look, like she resented me.
Her love felt conditional.
I could see it in her eyes, that disappointed look, like she wished I was different.
I knew I wasn’t perfect.
I made messes, was loud, and math wasn’t my thing. I liked different things than her.
But it hurt a lot to feel like I could never be good enough for her, to see that look in her eyes, like she didn’t want me as her daughter.
In her eyes, I saw the conflict, torn between love and expectation, between wanting what’s best for me and wanting me to fit a mold I couldn’t.
For a moment, it seemed like she might cry too, but she held it back, her expression turning firm.
I knew she was trying her best.
She wanted me to have a great life.
