From the time she was a child, she had always been part of group dances. Never once had she stepped onto the stage alone, never had she faced the audience without the comforting presence of others dancing alongside her. This time, however, was different. She was expected to perform—not as one among many, but as an individual.
She hadn't volunteered for this. In fact, she had tried to avoid it. But with enough encouragement from those around her, she had relented, convincing herself that if she followed the rhythm, if she moved just enough to keep up with the music, everything would be fine.
The moment she stepped onto the stage, however, her confidence wavered. The murmurs in the audience, the way their eyes lingered on her with expectation, made her stomach churn. These weren't just spectators waiting for a performance. These were people who had seen her mother dance before—who had admired her grace, her talent, her effortless ability to capture the audience's attention with every movement.
The music began. She took a deep breath, trying to recall the steps she had hastily memorized. Her feet moved, her arms followed, but something was missing. There was no rhythm in her body, no natural flow in her movements. Every step felt forced, every twirl slightly off-balance.
The silence in the hall was deafening. The excitement that had filled the air before the performance had vanished, replaced by an unspoken disappointment. It was evident in the way the audience sat still, in the way their expressions remained polite yet devoid of any real admiration. They had expected something else. Something more.
They had expected her to be her mother.
Of course, they hadn't said it out loud. No one wanted to hurt the feelings of a young girl who had gathered the courage to perform in front of so many. But the thoughts were there, lingering in the air like an unspoken truth.
"She's nothing like her mother."
"She doesn't have even a fraction of that talent."
"This was… underwhelming."
As the final beat of the music played, she stopped, catching her breath. For a moment, she stood there, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She didn't need anyone to tell her how it had gone—she already knew.
It had been a disaster.
She had never believed herself to be a gifted dancer, nor had she ever aspired to be one. Dancing had been her mother's world, not hers. Yet, the expectation of those watching had been suffocating. She could feel their stares, their silent comparisons.
And worst of all, the assumption that she was even her mother's daughter.
That was the cruelest irony of all. Because the woman they were comparing her to, the one they believed had passed down a legacy of talent—wasn't even her real mother.
With a deep breath, she stepped down from the stage, forcing a small smile as a few people offered her kind words out of politeness. But she knew the truth. No amount of reassurance could change the fact that she had failed to meet their expectations.