In a world where everything glittered, I was the polish that made it shine brighter. Or at least, that’s what I was raised to be.
Perfection wasn’t an option; it was an expectation. My mother didn’t just demand it—she built it, sculpted it, shaped it into every inch of my being. I was her finest creation, her living masterpiece, her proof that she had done everything right. To the outside world, we were untouchable. Wealth dripped from the walls of our home, power wove through the fabric of our lives, and beauty—beauty was a currency we spent freely.
I never once believed that I was raised for myself. I was raised for the image of me.
It started young. The way my mother’s gaze lingered a second too long when I spoke, measuring my words for flaws. The way she adjusted my posture with a light touch, as if slouching was a moral failure. The way she scanned my reflection in the mirror before events, not looking at me, but at what I represented. “You must always look the part,” she would say, fixing a strand of my hair, “People are watching.”
And they were. The dinner parties, the charity galas, the whispered negotiations in ballrooms where deals were made over champagne glasses—I was paraded through them all. I knew how to curtsy at the right angle; how to shake hands with the sons of rich high society men and princes alike; how to flash the right smile that made people believe I was exactly who they wanted me to be, but admiration has a cost.
There was no space for error, my mother ensured that. My body was maintained like a delicate sculpture, never too thin, never too full, always carefully measured. My academics were pristine because failure was simply not a language spoken in our home. Even my social life was curated, every friendship analyzed for status, for worth. If I was to exist in this world, I had to be above it. I was impressed. I was envious. I was flawless.
And yet, no one ever asked if I was happy. Happiness, I suspect, was not a requirement in my mother’s world. It was not necessary to maintain the image. So I learned to ignore the creeping emptiness that followed me like a shadow. I learned to swallow the exhaustion, to keep my voice smooth even when I wanted to scream. I learned to laugh at the right moments, to flirt at the right times, to stand just close enough to be wanted but never enough to be touched. Because I was not meant to be touched. I was meant to be admired, like a china doll.
But when I was alone, when the parties ended, I would stare at myself in the mirror and wonder: Who am I when no one is watching? Who am I when there is no perfection left to perform?
One night, in a rare moment of honesty, I asked her.
“Do you ever think I’m enough?”
She barely glanced up from her glass of wine and without hesitation she responded “Of course,” she said with a practiced smile, “But there’s always room for perfection.”
I smiled back. I had been trained well. But deep down, I knew the truth. I would never be a person to her. I would always be a reflection, an echo of the life she has built, a painting to be displayed, a role to be perfected. And even if the world adored me, even if I played my part flawlessly, I would never be enough.