The girl I never chose to be

One afternoon, as Angelica walked through the empty school corridor, a voice called out to her.

"Hey, Angel."

She froze.

Nobody had called her that in weeks.

Slowly, she turned and saw Ravi, one of the boys who had left for another school after seventh grade.

He looked at her like he still recognized her. Like he still saw Angel.

Her stomach twisted.

"I heard what they did to you," Ravi said quietly. "Is it true?"

Angelica's throat went dry.

She wanted to say no, to pretend that she had chosen this, that everything was fine.

But her lips trembled.

She saw her own reflection in the window—the pinafore, the neat hair, the soft posture.

Ravi followed her gaze. "You don’t look happy."

Angelica looked away.

The Seed of Doubt

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She tossed and turned, Ravi’s words repeating over and over in her mind.

You don’t look happy.

She sat up and stared at the mirror in the dim light.

Was he right?

Was she not happy?

No. She was fine. Everything was fine.

She had chosen this.

Right?

Her hands trembled as she reached for her uniform, gripping the fabric tightly.

And suddenly, she realized—

She hadn’t chosen anything.

The Escape Plan

Angelica’s heart pounded as she made up her mind.

She needed to get out.

She needed to leave the school.

She needed to be Angel again.

But how? Her parents would never allow it. The school would never accept it.

She had only one option—run away.

The Night of the Escape

That night, she packed a small bag—her old clothes, scissors to cut her hair again, and whatever money she could find.

She crept out of the house, heart hammering in her chest, every step feeling like a betrayal.

But just as she reached the front door—

The lights flicked on.

Her father stood there, arms crossed. "Where do you think you're going?"

Her mother’s voice came from behind her. "Angelica, sweetheart, what’s wrong?"

Her fingers tightened around the bag. "I… I need to leave."

The room was silent, but Angelica could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Her father stood in front of the door, blocking her path, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but the firmness in his stance made one thing clear—he would not let her leave.

Behind her, her mother’s voice was softer, almost soothing. "Where were you planning to go, Angelica?"

Hearing that name made something inside her snap.

"I am not Angelica!" she screamed, her voice raw with frustration. "I was never Angelica! You turned me into this!"

Her mother stepped forward, shaking her head. "No, sweetheart. We helped you become who you truly are."

Angelica clenched her fists. "I was happy before!"

Her father sighed, rubbing his temples like he was growing tired of the conversation. "You think you were happy. But you were confused, Angel. You never truly knew yourself. That’s why we had to guide you."

Her mother reached out, gently brushing Angelica’s cheek. Her touch was warm, affectionate—but Angelica flinched away.

Her mother’s smile didn’t falter. "Look at yourself, my love."

Angelica hesitated.

Her father pointed to the hallway mirror. "Even now, wearing those clothes, trying to run… you still look like a girl."

Angelica turned slowly to face the mirror.

And there she was.

Even in the dim light, even in the boy’s clothes she had stuffed into her bag, she still looked wrong.

Her hair was too long, her posture too refined. The softness of her face, the delicacy of her hands—she no longer looked like Angel.

She looked like Angelica in a costume.

Her mother’s voice was gentle, like a lullaby. "You don’t have to fight anymore, sweetheart. Just come back inside."

Angelica’s fingers loosened around the bag.

The walls felt like they were closing in on her, trapping her inside the identity she never chose.

But when she looked into her mother’s eyes—so full of love, so full of certainty—she felt her last piece of resistance crack.

Her father sighed in relief. "Good girl."

Angelica felt something shatter inside her.

And the last piece of Angel disappeared.

The Breaking of Angel – A Mother’s Love

Angelica’s mother was patient. She knew that resistance could not be crushed overnight.

It had to be nurtured.

So she didn’t force Angelica to accept her new self all at once. She guided her gently, like a sculptor shaping clay, molding her into the daughter she always believed she was meant to be.

The morning after Angelica’s failed escape, her mother came into her room with a warm smile and a silk scarf draped over her arm.

"It’s a new day, sweetheart," she said cheerfully.

Angelica sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor.

Her mother walked over and gently placed a hand under her chin, tilting her face up. "There’s no need to be sad. I know change is difficult, but you’ll see… it’s for the best."

Angelica didn’t respond.

Her mother sat beside her and smoothed the scarf between her fingers.

"This was my first silk scarf," she said, her voice soft with nostalgia. "I wore it when I was your age. My mother gave it to me, just as I’m giving it to you."

She draped the fabric gently over Angelica’s shoulders.

Angelica stiffened but didn’t protest.

Her mother’s hands moved with practiced ease, adjusting the scarf, making it fall elegantly over her frame.

"See? It suits you."

Angelica swallowed hard, staring at herself in the vanity mirror.

The boy who had tried to run away last night… he looked even further away now.

A Daughter’s Duties – Learning to Be a Lady

From that morning on, Angelica’s mother took personal care of her transformation.

It started subtly—little things.

A touch of perfume before school.

A bracelet slipped onto her wrist.

A soft pink lip balm instead of the colorless one she used before.

"These aren’t changes, sweetheart," her mother would say. "This is refinement. This is what girls do."

Then came the bigger lessons.

How to walk without making a sound.

How to lower her voice into a delicate, pleasant tone.

How to sit with her knees together, hands gently resting in her lap.

How to smile demurely instead of laughing too loudly.

How to accept a compliment without hesitation.

Her mother guided her with patient hands, fixing the way she held her purse, the way she flicked her hair, the way she applied her powder.

Angelica never refused.

Because every time she hesitated, her mother’s voice would turn just a little firmer.

"Good girls don’t argue, Angelica."

Angelica would nod obediently.

Because what choice did she have?

Dressing Up – The Saree Ritual

One evening, as the golden hues of dusk painted the sky, Angelica’s mother entered her room with a soft smile. Draped over her arm was something rich and shimmering—a saree.

Not just any saree, but a deep blue silk saree with golden embroidery, intricate like the delicate vines that curled around the temple pillars. It wasn’t just clothing; it was a symbol of grace, maturity, and womanhood.

Angelica sat on the edge of her bed, her heart pounding.

"A saree?" she murmured, her fingers twitching slightly.

Her mother nodded, eyes glistening. "This was my first saree," she said, unfolding the smooth fabric with reverence. "My mother gave it to me when I stepped into womanhood. And now, my darling… it’s your turn."

Angelica hesitated, but her mother’s touch was firm yet gentle as she guided her to stand before the mirror.

"Let me dress you, sweetheart," her mother cooed, her fingers working with practiced elegance.

She wrapped the saree around Angelica’s slender frame, pleating it meticulously, ensuring that each fold sat perfectly at her waist.

"Tuck it in gently," her mother instructed, guiding Angelica’s trembling hands to secure the pleats at the navel, just below where the blouse hugged her body. The sensation of the silk against her skin sent shivers down her spine—it was so soft, so delicate.

Then came the pallu, the flowing end of the saree. With a graceful motion, her mother draped it over Angelica’s shoulder, adjusting it so it cascaded beautifully down her back.

Angelica’s breath hitched.

She no longer looked like a boy wearing girl’s clothes.

She looked like a young woman, regal and poised.

Her mother’s gaze softened. She reached for a bindi, a tiny red dot of tradition, and pressed it gently onto Angelica’s forehead.

"There," she whispered. "Now you’re perfect."

Angelica swallowed, staring at her reflection.

The boy she once was? He had vanished beneath the layers of silk and femininity.

Her mother adjusted her long earrings, fastened delicate bangles onto her wrists, and placed a soft gold chain around her neck. Each piece added another layer of elegance, another step away from who she used to be.

Then, with the gentlest of touches, her mother lifted a tiny perfume bottle and dabbed a few drops onto Angelica’s wrists and behind her ears.

"This is how a woman carries herself," she said, smiling. "With beauty, grace, and a hint of mystery."

Angelica’s lips trembled.

Her mother wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Angelica’s shoulder.

"You make me so proud, my love," she murmured, pressing a kiss to Angelica’s cheek.

Angelica closed her eyes, feeling the weight of expectation, love, and surrender settle into her bones.

"Say it back, sweetheart."

Angelica hesitated, then whispered:

"I… I’m proud too, Mama."

Her mother’s eyes shone with pride.

"That’s my good girl."

And in that moment, Angelica knew—there was no turning back. We

The Final Transformation – Becoming a Woman

By the time Angelica reached adulthood, she no longer questioned her identity.

Her mother’s lessons had become second nature.

The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself—she was every bit the refined, elegant woman her mother had shaped her to be.

When people saw her, they admired her grace.

They called her beautiful, sophisticated, poised.

Her mother beamed with pride whenever they walked into a room together.

"You’re everything I ever wanted in a daughter."

Angelica smiled.

Because that was what she was supposed to do.

Because Angel was long gone.

And only Angelica remained.

Forever.

The Perfect Daughter – Angelica’s New Life

The years passed, and Angelica settled into her role with quiet acceptance.

She graduated from school with top marks, just as her parents expected.

She attended a prestigious university, where she was admired for her grace and intelligence.

People whispered about her elegance, her beauty, her charm.

No one ever questioned who she used to be.

No one remembered Angel.

Even Angelica barely did.

She had become everything her mother wanted—a refined, poised, and respectable woman.

And yet…

Some nights, when the world was quiet, she would sit in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection.

And she would whisper, so softly that even she barely heard it—

"Who am I?"

But there was no answer.

There was only Angelica.