Perfection

Perfection was the baby all viewed as a doll: her full lips wore a deep red, her luscious cheeks were hot stoves, her blue eyes were blinding lights, livening each room she entered, her dimples with each heart-melting smile would cave in to her flawless skin, and her brown tightly coiled ringlets were tamed like lions. She was the Einstein among the babies in the mommy-and-me class, as her chubby legs could carry her around by six months, and her voice whispered complete sentences by a year and a half, filling each parent with envy. She was reading by three and completing calculations by four, and her academic achievements continued to follow her throughout her life. Her mother placed her in dance class at six, by seven she was added to an advanced class, and by fourteen she was the most promising dancer in the company, always receiving solo performances and personal invitations to the most prestigious ballet schools. She attended Princeton, became a successful doctor, and raised a beautiful family. Her life was perfect.

What people did not see was Perfection’s parents shoving endless flashcards into her face, not allowing her to enjoy her toys, when she was a baby. They did not see her parents trapping her inside, forcing her to practice reading and writing, as she caught glimpses of the neighborhood children playing. They missed Perfection’s failures during her first few months of dance, her mother roaring that she should be better, and the countless nights she spent practicing in the dark on the cement of her basement. They missed her turning on the shower to block the noise, sitting on the cool bathroom tiles, weeping due to her unbearable stress, as she did not want her parents to see her weakness. They missed the fact that she was waitlisted to Princeton, and that she volunteered in different countries for a year because she failed her MCATs. They did not see the rounds of IVF she completed to have her children, or the affair her husband had with a fellow mother in the neighborhood. They missed all of these flaws, which are what she made her life’s goal to conceal. Perfection preserved the illusion of perfection.

Artwork: "Pluto" by Molly St. Clair