The “Best Mom” contest had started out as a lighthearted idea—a fun way to bond with neighbors. But for me, it quickly became an obsession. I was determined to win. My days revolved around baking, cleaning, volunteering, and organizing picture-perfect moments with my daughter, Lily. I wanted her to see me as the best, and I wanted everyone else to see it too.
The competition was fierce, but I felt confident. Every event, every challenge, I nailed it. I was running on pure adrenaline, convinced I could pull off this “perfect mom” act. But I was so busy chasing perfection that I didn’t notice the cracks forming.
The final event, a mother-daughter talent showcase, was supposed to be the grand finale. Lily had agreed to perform a song with me, and I’d spent days practicing, picking the perfect outfit for her, and planning everything down to the last detail. But when the time came, she was nowhere to be found.
Panic set in as I searched the house, calling her name. I finally found her upstairs in her room, curled up on her bed, tears streaming down her face.
“Lily, what’s wrong?” I asked, kneeling beside her.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she jumped up, grabbed her jacket, and bolted past me, slamming the door behind her.
My heart sank. What had I done? I sat on her bed, trying to figure out what could have upset her so much. That’s when I saw it—her diary peeking out of a drawer she hadn’t fully closed.
I hesitated. Reading it felt like a betrayal, but something was clearly wrong. My hands shook as I opened it, scanning the pages.
The entries gutted me. Page after page, Lily had written about how she felt invisible.
*”Mom’s too busy trying to look like the best mom to everyone else. She doesn’t even see me anymore.”*
*”She keeps talking about how we need to win this contest, but I don’t care about winning. I just want her to spend time with me like we used to.”*
*”Today she got mad at me because I didn’t smile enough for the contest photos. I feel like I’m just another trophy she wants to show off.”*
By the time I reached the last page, tears blurred my vision. The final line hit me like a punch to the gut:
*”I wish I could tell her, but I don’t think she’d listen.”*
I closed the diary, my chest tight with guilt and shame. How had I not seen this? In my pursuit of being the “Best Mom,” I had completely failed at actually *being* her mom.
I knew what I had to do.
At the contest, the organizers called my name for the final round. I stood up, took a deep breath, and walked to the microphone.
“Hi, everyone. First of all, I want to thank you for this wonderful idea and the fun we’ve all had these past few weeks. But I’m afraid I have to drop out of the competition.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Don’t get me wrong—I love being a mom. But somewhere along the way, I got so focused on proving I was the best that I forgot what really matters. My daughter. So, I’m bowing out to focus on the only thing that truly matters: being *her* mom.”
I walked off the stage to stunned silence, but I didn’t care. I went straight home, where Lily was sitting in the living room, her eyes red from crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting next to her. “I read your diary. I know I shouldn’t have, but I needed to understand what’s been going on.”
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Her lip trembled. “You’re mad at me?”
“No,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I’m mad at myself. I’ve been so caught up in trying to look like the perfect mom that I forgot to *be* your mom. That’s going to change, starting now. No more contests. Just us.”
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She sniffled, then hugged me back tightly. “I just want you, Mom. That’s all I ever wanted.”
And just like that, I realized I didn’t need a trophy or a title to prove I was a good mom. All I needed was her smile—and I was determined to earn it back.