Subtle Steps in Solitude

• 12 • A grand leap

I stood there, facing Ma. The restaurant was slowly emptying, waitstaff shuffling around clearing tables, but all I could hear was the steady thumping of my heart in my ears. I had no idea where to start. The words that felt so urgent a moment ago suddenly seemed inadequate.

She stood still, hands folded neatly in front of her, waiting. Always waiting. Ma wasn't one to initiate. She was more like a well-maintained piece of armor—polished, unyielding, protective but never inviting.

"Well?" she asked, her voice clipped. It was the kind of tone that made me feel like I was back in secondary school, explaining why I got a B+ in General Science instead of an A.

I took a deep breath, ignoring the knot forming in my stomach. "I don't even know where to start, Ma."

She raised an eyebrow, not a single muscle in her face twitching. "Then perhaps you shouldn't start at all."

That was it—the wall. She was putting it up again, that barrier between us that had always been there. I could feel my pulse quickening, my old defense mechanisms kicking in. Every instinct told me to back down, to let this conversation slide into the void of unspoken things we both pretended didn't exist. But no—this time was different. I wasn't going to let it slide, not anymore.

"Do you know how exhausting it is?" I blurted out, louder than I intended. I took a step closer to her, my voice softening again. "To feel like I'm constantly running a race I didn't even sign up for? To always be... trying to be good enough, but never actually feeling like I am?"

Her gaze sharpened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't respond, just stared at me like I was speaking a language she'd forgotten how to understand.

"I've spent my whole life... trying to meet expectations. Your expectations, the family's, society's, hell—my own expectations! But Ma, I can't do it anymore. I'm... tired."

The words hung between us, fragile but heavy. She blinked slowly, a sign that she was thinking, processing, but still she said nothing. And of course, she wouldn't make this easy.

"I just..." My voice cracked a little. I swallowed hard and fought to regain composure. "I just want to know if you're proud of me, Ma. For once... I just want to hear that what I've done is enough."

Her brow furrowed, but it wasn't out of anger—it was confusion. Like I was asking her to solve a riddle she didn't want to be bothered with. She finally spoke, and her voice was as cold and flat as ever. "You are my daughter. You have done well."

That's it? That's what she had to say? It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close.

"That's it?" I said, incredulity mixing with anger. "That's all you have to say after everything I just told you? I've been carrying this around for years, Ma. Years! And all I get is a vague acknowledgment that I exist?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What else do you want from me, Cici? A parade? You're doing fine. What more do you need?"

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "You really don't get it, do you?"

She crossed her arms, her posture stiffening. "Explain it to me then. What exactly am I supposed to 'get'?"

I could feel my throat tightening, tears threatening to spill over, but I swallowed them back. "I don't need a parade. I just need... I need you to see me, Ma. Not just as a 'daughter' who's supposed to be perfect, not as a reflection of your expectations, but as me—Cici, the person who's just trying to figure things out."

The words spilled out in a rush, but as soon as they left my lips, I regretted them. Ma's expression hardened even more, her jaw clenched tightly. She was holding back, I could tell.