Chapter 24

Chapter

Twenty-Four

"A mother knows what her child's gone through, even if she didn't see it herself."

― Pramoedya Ananta Toer

Sofiya

Many, many years ago.

"Come on, Sofiya! You got this! What's twenty-one divided by three?"

My mom's voice cut through the quiet of our study time, and I looked up from my math book, feeling tears prickle at the corners of my eyes.

Twenty-one divided by three?

Confusion twisted my thoughts, making everything seem jumbled.

We'd been at it for what felt like forever, my mom patiently trying to teach me division. I never liked math, and my mom knew it.

But being homeschooled meant she could make me spend extra time on it.

An hour ago, we took a break when Dasha brought us fresh strawberry and white chocolate cookies with hot cocoa, seeing how much I was struggling.

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.

But what I really needed was her acceptance, to love me for who I was, not who she wanted me to be. I needed her to like me too, and that was something she couldn't give, no matter how hard I tried.

"When I was still a little girl," she whispered, "whenever I misbehaved or didn't listen, my mama would resort to very harsh punishments."

Her gaze drifted into the distance, lost in the shadows of her past.

I stayed silent, all ears, as it was the first time she had ever talked about her family.

"I used to struggle with bedwetting for a long time," she confided, her voice quivering with vulnerability as memories flooded back. "And my mama's solution was to make me wear diapers for years."

"One night, she promised to take me to the park if I could stay dry. But when I woke up, my diaper was soaked. I felt so ashamed and sad that I hid it under my bed, pretending I hadn't wet it. But the smell gave me away, and my mama found it hours later," she paused, her voice breaking.

Uncertain about where this was going, I settled back into my seat.

"She came back screaming, calling me names," she swallowed, her eyes filling with tears, "and shoved the diaper in my face."

My hand flew to my mouth in shock.

My heart ached for the little girl she once was .

The memory painted lines of sorrow on her face as she looked into my eyes.

With a shaky voice, she continued. "She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to the shower.

Then, she stripped me naked and spanked my ass, saying she was going to burn my sex if I didn't grow up and act my age. I was only seven at the time."

The words seemed to choke her, and she struggled to maintain her composure.

"I remember the pain," she whispered, her voice filled with anguish. "The humiliation… I can still feel it all these years later."

Still in shock, I rose from my seat and enveloped her in a tight hug, sensing it was the only thing to do.

As her face dropped onto my neck, she clung to me tighter.

"I'm so sorry, Sofiya," she said, her voice barely audible. "I never want you to feel the way I did. I never want to hurt you like that."

My heart broke.

"I'm sorry too, Mama," I said softly. "I promise I'll try harder. I don't want to disappoint you."

She pulled away and held my face in her hands, her touch soft but filled with longing.

"Oh, Sofiya. You don't have to try harder. You're perfect just as you are. I love you so much."

Tears glistened in her eyes as she pressed gentle kisses to my cheeks.

I grabbed her hands in mine.

"My perfect little daughter," she smiled. "My little sweetheart."