You stupid girl! Of all the words ever spoken to Sophia, these were the ones that grew the deepest roots, surfacing from the dark recesses of her memory when she made mistakes. They slid from her lips while she scanned a poor report card, failed a test, or fumbled a simple calculation. It came as no surprise to her when her college application was denied, the car wouldn’t start, or the power went out. After all, she was a stupid girl.

Sophia was quick to take the blame when the weather ruined picnics with friends or unexpected illnesses upset vacations. She grew hot and uncomfortable when people offered praise, certain they were mistaken. After all, she was a stupid girl.

When Mother’s health declined, Sophia sat dutifully at the bedside. She offered apologies and promises to quell her stupidity if only Mother survived. At the graveside, dressed in black, Sophia was inconsolable. If only she’d been smarter, it might have saved her mother, but how could she? After all, she was a stupid girl.

In time, Sophia fell in love, and new words buried themselves in her subconscious. Beautiful, kind, loving. She drew the line at smart, repeating the familiar refrain: I’m a stupid girl. Her husband demanded to know who’d lied to her, which made Sophia laugh and shake her head. After all, she was confident in her claim, having spent years tattooing it on her brain.

When Sophia died, her children told the world, “Mamma was so smart.” 

Word: roots | Action: deep