Mother

The invitation, the one that changed everything, was cream colored, with pink trim. The words were black, the ink expensive. It was befitting of the king, for of course the king had sent it. It was that like scrap of paper that immortalized my stepdaughter’s name, and made mine foggy and infamous. They know me only as the stepmother now. My story has not been told. I suppose hers merited more attention, and people prefer the idea of a pretty young girl, than the old woman I have become. I spend my days in my chambers now, dark bleak things, fitting for the mourning widow of two I am. It smells, of my perfume, my dog, the food they bring up, and I suppose of old woman. T is dark, all made up in black and grey, the windows shut. I live mainly on bred and chamomile tea. Strange that tea. Tastes wonderful, looks like piss. A little like me. I married Georg first. He was Austrian. Tall, eagle eyed, handsome. I loved him, very very much. Then the war came, and my Georg was gone. I had an estate, a fortune, two girls, and a broken heart. I guess you could say Heinrich and I found each other in the dark. Both of us in pain, and we found a solution in each other. A trained spouse, rich too. And Heinrich was a nice man, strong, and I was returned my social standing as wife and socialite. The future seemed bright. But my girls, my girls were my Achilles’ heel. They were not bright, or pretty, I’ll admit. They were not kind or polite, and this is my fault. I was so happily so blindly in love with Georg that I did not look at them twice before handing them off to the servants. They grew spoiled and rude, but after the death of my Georg they were all had of him. We are all blind and dumb when it comes to our children, and I defended them fiercely, and let them live how they wanted. I couldn’t bear to cause them sorrow, as shallow as I knew it was. And then there was Ella perfect, pretty little Ella. I both loved and hated her. She was the daughter I wanted, and I longed to love her, be a mother to her, but on the outside I was cold and cruel to her. I let her be called names, and moved to the attic. I let her suffer, and let my daughters run amok, and grew cold inside. I suppose I hated Ella too. I was scared of losing my husband, of facing my failure, of loving her. I as like a spider, trapping my perceived rival. Our lives, though, on the whole were good, and content. I was not the hostess I once was, having turned bitter, with age and heartbreak. Heinrich began to visit the manor less and less, getting involved in travels and his wine and his whores and his business. When he did come by, he had eyes for only Ella, and occasionally me. Then he’d be of again. My girls and he didn't even glance at each other and it was oddly pleasant not to have to mix those two worlds. The forerunning experiment was bad enough. Then came the invitation. I went to the ball, alone, with the girls, because Heinrich and I saw very little of each other. It was better that way. Everyone knows what happened then. In came a mysterious princess, with grace and elegance and poise and all the traits wanted for a princess, like many men, though none as worthy or noble, the prince could not tear his eyes from her. I remember her coming by to greet me, and the flash in her eyes. I knew it as Ella, my Ella. I nodded and she moved on. To this day I don’t know if she recognized me too. But only Ella could enchant a man that way, be it Heinrich, or the baker, or the stable boy, or the tailor when she picked up the new dresses. She should have been mine, by birth and blood. Instead I own the pig and the cow by the buffet table. To this day I pray to God to forgive me for my excess pride and arrogance, for it was that which must have caused the wreckage of an offspring afforded me. When we got to the house, Ella said nothing, and I almost went own to the kitchen to simultaneously shake her for her insult and hug her in pride. Instead I went to bed. Then the man with the slipper came. He was a servant really, and my girls ran to him, and tried to cram their beefy toes into the delicate heel. And then it was Ella’s turn. Her beauty made his eyes soft, her spell ensnaring all of the male sex, whether she wanted it or not. I could’ve have stopped her I suppose. Sent her away. Given orders. I was good at orders, and she was good at following them. But maybe it s away to finally be free. And lo and behold, the shoe fit. Ella was indeed the princess. Then it was a whirl of weddings and knightings and balls. Ella was good enough to find my girls husbands and it seemed they finally learned gratefulness and humility. A final gift from Ella, along with good, if unattractive husbands. Beautiful people always find each other, why should the same not be true for ugly people? Heinrich lived out his days, and here I am, vilified in my old age as the cruel stepmother of the beautiful girl now known as Cinderella, the gift my daughters gave her. And here I am, looking back, thinking I may have had more fun had I spoiled the girl, given us both joy and laughter. The memories are clear now, the road untaken more bitter in my winter years. My winter years, that seems, appropriate, as we all seem to turn gray and silver with age, with the time. I’m dying now, old, abandoned, drenched in black and pain. And the scent of chamomile tea.

Piece about the final days or years of Cinderella’s step mom.