A Woman's Role

It was the best day of the year for now 11-year-old Sofia: her birthday. She was surrounded by her relatives and classmates singing “happy birthday” to her. She was the centerpiece, the star of the show today. She stood at her stage at the head of the dining table with her chin almost held up high. Father stood across the room, his glazed-over eyes aimed in the general direction of the table.

As the small crowd wrapped up the song, the birthday girl took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. Sofia cherished this moment when the world seemed to stand still. It was just her, the supermarket sheet cake with her name written in frosting, the candle flames flickering in anticipation, and the people who loved her standing around the table. She felt safe as she blew out the candles with the wish that she could feel that stillness just once more that year. As soon as the flames turned to smoke, the chaos around her resumed. The fear came rushing back in as the breath left her lungs.

Her head was pounding as the chorus of congratulations began. Each pat on the back felt like a thunderclap as each pair of eyes she met gradually raised her heart rate. She kept a nice smile plastered on her face like she was raised to do. She wouldn’t let herself break publicly. That’s not what respectable women do. She cursed herself for her hysterics and clenched her fist. She saw her mother approaching from the corner of her eye and turned to her with that smile glued in place, her nails digging into her palm.

Her mother bent down and whispered in her ear, “Loosen up a little, honey. Don’t forget to smile.”

She hadn’t noticed that she had relaxed her expression and put her smile back on as quickly as she could, hoping Father hadn’t noticed either. Her nails dug deeper into her palm as a ball in her throat grew. Sofia hastily excused herself and briskly walked to the restroom. She stayed standing up against the door as if someone were about to come bursting in. She took deep breaths, feeling like she was getting oxygen into her lungs for the first time all day. 

Slowly, she slid her back down the door and crumpled down onto the tiled floor. Her eyes welled up with hot tears in moments and quickly overflowed down her cheeks. The tense muscles that had been forcing a smile all day ached and quivered with exhaustion. She finally released the tension that had taken over her body and broke down in a silent sob. Why did she have to be this way? Why couldn’t she just be the good young woman that her parents needed her to be? Why did she have to be so difficult instead of simple and agreeable like respectable women were?

Sitting here, huddled in a weak pile on the restroom floor, felt as close to stillness as Sofia could get. Here there were no eyes on her, not even ones with anger or apathy or even kindness. She felt overwhelmed with fear when she met kind eyes, like her mother’s, because then she felt pressure to keep them in good spirits. Then she had the potential to fail and fall harder. 

At least apathetic eyes expected nothing from you, wanted nothing but for you to be a proper non-player character in their lives and do as you’re told. At least then, you know exactly what you must do to maintain your standing in those eyes. 

A wave of anxiety bubbled in Sofia’s stomach as the earth around her resumed spinning and she remembered she needed to return to her role. There was no clocking out in this household. You stay on the clock and you do everything you can to represent the family and make Father proud. Somehow, she knew he would be on the other side. She had walked out of the scene for too long and the main character of this game had to have noticed. She developed this extra sense over 11 years of progressively more difficult levels. 

Sofia stood up and smoothed out the wrinkles that had formed in the linen dress her mother had picked out for her. She quickly ran her hands under the sink to wet down the frizz forming off her curls in the summer heat. Father said she looked unkempt with her naturally frizzy hair. He only had to say it once. She learned very quickly that people were nicer when she smoothed her curls into submission.

Sofia walked to the door, threw her shoulders back, and opened the door. As expected, Father was right there waiting for her. The glaze in his eyes had darkened.

“You’re being antisocial. Now, put a smile on that face and get back out there. Fix your hair first, too,” he muttered coldly.

“He’s right,” Sofia thought to herself. “Everyone’s going to be talking about me.”

Sofia felt time slow down, but not to that nice, still point she craved — no, when time is moving as slowly as molasses, it only intensifies the anxiety in her heart. It gives her more time to make eye contact with everyone else and think of all the ways she’s disappointing them right now. She wrinkled the nice dress that her mother was proud to show off to the fellow PTA moms. Her hair just needed to learn how to cooperate with a good combing every day. Her face just needed to toughen up to hide those pesky emotions and keep the nice smile plastered on. The quieter she can make her thoughts, the more respectable of a young woman she will be.

Father is just preparing her for the world, of course. Others won’t be so forgiving and patient, he says. He’s tough on her because he cares, her mother reminds her. Sofia’s heart hurt. Her head throbbed as her jaw and throat tightened. It was so exhausting trying to be enough all the time. 

Eventually, if she can just make her thoughts still, she’ll be free, she tells herself. She’ll be just like the women everyone respects and if she keeps it up for long enough, a respectable man will show up and claim her one day. Then the eyes will shift off her and toward this nameless, shapeless, new main character. That’s how it was for Sofia’s mother, and her mother before her, and so on. That’s the way it was predetermined in the story Sofia’s parents were writing for her.