Sophie, the “Monstrous Miss”
THE soft spring breeze carried the faint scent of salt and blossoms as it swept through the winding streets of the port city, where towering ships lay moored in calm waters. On the outskirts of the bustling town, nestled in an impressive stone-built estate near the docks, a scream pierced the evening air and shattered the stillness.
Bang. The door to the office flew open. One of the estate’s maids, breathless and disheveled, stormed into the lord’s private office, disregarding all decorum. Her chest heaved with panic, strands of hair escaping her bonnet, eyes wide and frantic.
“What is the meaning of this?” the lord of the house set his pen across the scattered papers before him and rose sharply.
“It’s Ms. Sophie!” the maid gasped, barely catching her breath. “She—she’s fallen out the window!”
Thunk. The writing desk trembled, and thick black ink spilled across its surface.
That had been the last thing the man had wanted to hear on the eve of his only daughter’s seventeenth birthday.
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MY name was Mariko Tanaka. I was fifty-seven years old.
At eighteen, I got pregnant, dropped out of vocational school, and had a baby girl. By nineteen, I was a widow. My husband died in an accident, leaving me to figure out how to be both mother and father in that tiny, run-down apartment.
Our daughter was born with a skin condition. Something so awful, it was like her own body was attacking her. I used to sit in that small, dimly lit room, holding her tiny fingers to stop her from scratching herself raw. “Don’t scratch, don’t cry,” I whispered. I told her not to cry, even though I was the one crying. I apologized over and over as if that would change anything. We’d fall asleep like that—me crying myself to exhaustion, her curled in my arms.
When she started kindergarten, she didn’t make a single friend. By elementary school, the other kids avoided her like she was contagious, calling her dirty. I blamed myself. Of course I did. I couldn’t even give her the basic gift of normal, healthy skin. It was my failure—her suffering was because of me.
Before the money ran out—the money that was supposed to replace my husband’s life—I found a job. Caregiving. Night shifts. Grueling work. But it was all I could get. No degree, no experience—this was more than I deserved.
But my daughter, despite everything, had a strength I never understood. We were poor. I was tired and absent all the time, and she was in constant pain from that cursed skin of hers. And yet, she threw herself into her studies. She became a doctor.
I don’t know how it happened. She never told me about her scholarship or college plans. She just handed me forms, and I signed and stamped them like it was nothing. And before I knew it, she had graduated from med school.
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“I’M sorry.”
The night she got her medical license, we sat down for a small dinner—nothing fancy, just the two of us. It was supposed to be a celebration, but instead, I broke my promise to be happy for her. Tears streaming down my face, I apologized.
I apologized for having her so young. For the skin condition that made her life harder from the moment she was born. For the poverty. The thrift store clothes. The off-brand snacks. I couldn’t give her the life other kids had. I couldn’t even let her dream of the toys she wanted because she knew better than to ask. And when she was anxious about her future, all I could do was stand on the sidelines because what did I know about being a doctor? A dropout like me had nothing to offer her.
Youth. Youth was all I had, supposedly. But before I’d realized it, I’d squandered it all, working myself to the bone. I was decrepit, exhausted, a shadow of the person I might have been. I called myself a mother, but what kind of mother had I been, really? A vessel to bring her into this world, but like a vessel, beyond that, I was empty.
In the middle of my sobbing, she wrapped her arms around me, cutting my apology short. And that’s when I noticed—her skin. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be. Over the years, it had improved. Now, only the changing seasons or an illness brought back the flare-ups. She had grown into a beautiful, calm woman, her eyes full of wisdom and kindness.
“You’ve always been in my corner, Mom.” She smiled at me. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
Her eyes grew glassy, and soon, the tears fell, streaking down her cheeks to match mine. That night, she told me it was her turn to take care of me. That she would repay everything.