It was on a cold, wintry day more than a decade ago that I first donned the mask of the perfect lady.
I had long been lauded as a prodigy, a precocious young girl who could conquer any challenge set before her. These were the expectations that had been set for me, and I, so desperately afraid of disappointing those who had placed that faith in me, endeavored to embody that acclaim with every fiber of my being.
I, Flora Sanchez, showed no weakness, buried any signs of imperfection. Yet for all that, there had remained one person in front of whom my facade always effortlessly melted away—my mother.
Karen Sanchez. No matter where I fled, no matter where I tried to hide, I could count on her to always find me.
“Goodness, Flora, darling, there you are. What happened?”
With a soundless, startling abruptness, my mother appeared before me. I found myself gazing into those beautiful padparadscha sapphire eyes; they brimmed with love as she peered into my face with a gentle curiosity.
I felt my own eyes widen in surprise. How had she found me? I had come all this way to the secluded rear gardens of our estate, a half-wild place where no one ever ventured, yet this nevertheless seemed to be the first place she’d thought to visit. Not only had she found me, but she had also discerned that something was bothering me with just a cursory glance. Even at that young age, I had understood that this was no common ability, but rather a rare gift belonging only to those with deep compassion, attuned to the silent struggles of others.
The urge to voice my complaints and grievances rose almost instinctively, but I pressed my lips tightly together. It felt wrong to burden my mother, to seek refuge in her embrace. Convincing myself that I was the epitome of a composed young lady, I attempted to present a facade of strength. “I’m perfectly fine, Mother,” I managed to say with as much poise as I could muster. “I appreciate your concern, but it is misplaced.”
“My, putting on a strong face, are we?” she replied, her eyes dancing with kind amusement. “Where did my darling little girl learn to do that?”
Her teasing words were accompanied by a knowing smile, undaunted by my attempts to assure her of my well-being. She knew I was concealing something deep inside. The message in her expression was clear: lean on me.
“My dearest Flora,” Mother began again, her voice firm yet filled with tenderness, “we all endure hardship from time to time, but we mustn’t become accustomed to it. It’s important to express our emotions, and sometimes that requires a good, long cry.” She opened her arms invitingly. “Come here, darling.”
Everything in this encounter had transpired exactly as she’d wanted. I found myself suddenly confronted with the safest, most comforting place to release my pent-up emotions. It was then that I realized I was no match for my mother’s stubborn sweetness; I was perhaps foolish to have even thought I’d stood a chance. All my pretensions of stoicism dissolved under the weight of her unconditional affection. Clearly, I still had much to learn.
Without hesitation, I rushed into her open arms, and she enveloped me in a warm embrace. Encased in this cocoon of affection, I let go completely, crying loudly and without restraint. “There, there, my precious one,” she whispered, her voice so soothing that it drew the tears from me without effort.
Oh, Mother. You’re the only one who can remove this mask of mine. You always have been, and you always will be.
A mother’s love knows no bounds. That phrase had never felt more poignant than as I clung helplessly in her arms.
Those were the times, those rare moments when I could act like the child I was, which were the happiest ones. Back then, I had wished they could last forever. I’d known even then that it wasn’t possible. But alas, if only I had truly known how few moments we’d had remaining to us.
Not long after that day in the garden, Mother fell ill, then died.
It was the plague that took her from me. It claimed her quickly. Her frail body, weakened by recent childbirth, couldn’t withstand the onslaught of the disease, and it wasn’t long at all before she’d breathed her last.
I’d stood there at her funeral, clad in a somber black gown. Gazing down at her casket, I regarded my mother’s serene visage. She seemed so peaceful, which felt like a cruel illusion suggesting she might awaken at any moment, gracing us once more with her loving presence.
But this was no fairy tale. She was gone, irrevocably so. I forced myself to look away, vowing not to cry. The sorrow within me swelled, but I refused to let it break through my defenses. This was my mother’s funeral; here, of all places, I could not afford to let my true self slip through.
I was calm, collected—the perfect lady. While family, friends, and servants wept openly, I endeavored to console them. I put on a strong face, thanked them for attending, and spoke of Mother in fond remembrance. This role should have fallen to Father, the chief mourner, but he remained rooted by her casket, ensnared in silent grief, leaving me to shoulder the burden alone.
In the absence of his strength, someone had to step up. Why did I have to pick up the slack? Because I was the perfect lady, and this was what perfect ladies do.
The hushed whispers of the gathering reached my ears:
“Lady Flora exhibits remarkable composure for one so young. Truly commendable.”
“Well, she is the duke’s daughter.”
“The epithet ‘perfect lady’ is not just for show, is it?”
“To manage not to shed a single tear at her own mother’s funeral and to assist in the proceedings—such a feat is beyond the reach of any ordinary child.”
“It appears she has matters well in hand. Let us not intrude. Flora will manage admirably on her own.”
On her own. The words echoed through my very being. Through it all, not a single sentiment of consolation was spoken towards me. I felt suffocated, entrapped. Were they even aware of the immense pressure their words imposed on me?
That was perhaps the first time I suspected that the sobriquet of perfection was not a blessing, but a curse—a titanic burden I was barely able to support, one under which I would ultimately be crushed.
With my mother gone, I lost not only her person but the sanctuary she had provided. It was in her comforting presence that I had been able to shed tears, reveal the truth of my fragile self, and suspend the illusion of perfection. Without her, no one remained to peel away the mask that clung to me, to allow me a moment to breathe.
How could I continue, day after day, with my identity fused to this facade of the perfect lady? Would the mask ever come off, or would it remain, constricting me indefinitely? I feared that eventually, something would have to break—me or the mask. And when the pretense dissolved, what then? At the time, it was impossible for me to imagine.
As I stood at her graveside, surrounded by adults too wrapped up in their lives to care for mine, I wondered if it was time for me to give up the act. But the roots of that insidious title—perfection—had burrowed deep. Deeper than I’d thought. I found myself unable to uproot these entrenched expectations, fearing the sharp sting of disappointment and rejection—a pain for which I was utterly unprepared.
Pathetic, wasn’t it? Unable to fully embody the role of the perfect lady, yet too cowardly to reject it outright. I craved the accolades but wanted none of the responsibilities. As I pondered an alternative source of emotional release, striving vainly to think of anything in my life that could take the role my mother once had played, the sound of wailing snapped me to attention.
I turned towards the source—the new sister, Carolina, cradled in her wet nurse’s arms. The nurse rocked her gently, cooing in a futile attempt to soothe her cries. “Oh, my sweet lady, do you mourn Her Ladyship’s passing?” she murmured. “Your cries are more sorrowful than ever.”
All eyes shifted towards the pair, filled with a mix of compassion and sorrow. Their voices held no malice as they murmured “poor girl” this and “poor girl” that. The more their words of pity washed over me, the more I felt...irritated. Why did a mere infant, of all people, deserve their compassion? In some way, wasn’t she partly responsible for Mother’s demise? Yet here they were, lavishing empathy on a newborn, whose very existence might indeed be what had cost us the very person we were all gathered to mourn!
Anger churned within me. Was I wrong? Was it misguided to think that if Mother hadn’t been so weakened after birthing Carolina, she might have survived the illness? Her body had needed every ounce of energy to combat the disease, energy that had been siphoned away by this bawling bundle, my sister!
As I recalled Mother’s fragile face, drained of color, lying on her deathbed, my thoughts darkened to a grim, inevitable conclusion:
Carolina is to blame. If she hadn’t been born, Mother would still be alive. Mother is dead because of her.
The sadness for my mother’s death was gone. It had been replaced by a seething hatred towards this nascent life. And in that moment, the resolve to uphold the persona of the perfect lady rekindled within me, fiercer it had ever blazed before.
Because I had to become her—that unassailable ideal—if my plans for revenge were to succeed.
Gazing up at the gray, ominous sky, I steeled myself. Endure any hardship, tolerate any pain, I commanded myself. Do whatever it takes to leave Carolina no refuge, no sliver of doubt about her undeserved existence. If her birth has robbed me of Mother, then I will deprive her of joy in a life she does not deserve!
With a malevolent spark in my eyes, I approached the wailing infant. Gently, I took her from her wet nurse’s arms, cradling her against my chest. I smiled at her so gently, the mask of the perfect lady—no, the mask of the doting sister—on my face. Even before this child could grasp her surroundings, I needed to lay the groundwork for my revenge. I had to act swiftly, to ensure she wouldn’t (couldn’t) retaliate.
Yes, my revenge had to be all-encompassing. No, it had to be perfect. My very dignity now depended on it.
My heart withered into a darkened lump of revenge, yet those around us remained none the wiser. I absorbed their praise, their admiration of my role as the caring, affectionate sister, and inwardly, I smirked.
It begins, I whispered to myself. The curtains rise on the carefully plotted drama of my revenge.