I Remember

Girl from the Fire

I can still remember the day he died.

It had been the middle of winter, and our small cottage was doing little to shield us from the fierce blizzards. My sister and I wore layers of his clothing under our dresses, while our mother sat by the fireplace, her fingers stained with ash from her attempts to keep the last embers from dying out. Food was running low, and our chances of survival were dwindling. And all the while, he sat there.

My father had always been the strongest person I knew; never once had I seen him take ill. So imagine my shock at seeing him lying on the floor behind my mother, all skin and bones and ragged breaths. He wore only a simple suit, as he had opted to let us use the blankets instead of him, and his skin was sunken in; it had been days since he had eaten, always letting us fill our stomachs first.

I had never truly understood why he would do such things, but I suppose when it comes to the ones you love, you'll do anything to save them. He knew he was sick, and didn't want anything to be wasted on himself that could be used to keep the rest of us alive.

One week later, not only was the storm gone, but so was he.

Mother remarried years later, once we were teenagers. We had been struggling to survive since the loss of Father, but then comes along a man who promises to make everything okay again. On their wedding day, I saw my mother smile for the first time in years.

But that man lied.

My sister and I had finally started to adjust to our new lives when we heard the news. Like the man before him, this one too had become sick. And just like our father, he didn't live long enough to see another spring.

We were in the same position as before, except we were even more desperate this time around. The man had had a child of his own, who we also had to care for. She was a little younger than my sister and I, maybe a year or two, so when my mother started to drill various talents into us in the hopes of earning a little money, she didn't do the same with the child.

We learned to sing, but our voices were scratchy from crying ourselves to sleep every night. We learned to draw, but our hands still shook from the fear of struggling to survive. We couldn't keep house; we had never learned how. Who were we kidding? We were useless. And it wasn't like Mother could do anything; she acted strong for us, but every day we saw the bags under her eyes, and sometimes, when she thought we weren't looking, she'd collapse to the floor in uncontrollable sobs. We could never bear to watch that.

But as sorry as I had felt for my family, it was nothing compared to my feelings toward the small child.

She had lost so much more than us, and yet still she kept that smile on her face. She even offered to help us with the chores, and to teach us how to cook and clean. We were no good, but she kept her patience with us, no matter what. I truly loved that girl.

Mother, on the other hand, tended to forget she was there. I think looking upon the girl's sadness and loss reminded her too much of her own past, so she chose to ignore her instead. Deep down, though, I could tell my mother thought of the girl as a third child. I could see it in her eyes, love mixed in with the pain.

The poor girl, the work sure took its toll on her. Her clothing grew ragged, and she didn't really have time to do what she'd wanted. I wish that we'd had the money to fix all of that. One day, during breakfast, I noticed her hands, so beautiful in spite of everything, covered in cinders from the fire she'd been tending. And all I could think about was my mother, so many years ago, working hard to keep her family warm and alive throughout the worst storm in her life.

And that's when the nickname started. My sister and I meant no harm by it, and, though she never complained, I've always hoped that she understood what it really was we were saying about her when we used it.

After all, how many people can live through such a raging fire and come out with only a light dusting of ash?

Cinderella sure was strong enough.

My sister and I were three months into our newfound obsession with the prince when the letters arrived.

Cinderella was so happy for us, absolutely ecstatic that we'd have a chance to win the heart of the person we had both fallen in love with. She herself had never really cared for him, but nevertheless helped us plan out how we would get the prince's attention and ultimately win him over.

We still didn't have much money, so Mother said that Cinderella couldn't go, seeing as we didn't have money to spare on a dress for a ball that a person didn't even want to attend. Cinderella had understood, even going so far as to help us prep on that fateful night, doing our hair and making final adjustments to our gowns. It had been hard waving good-bye as the carriage drove off, but I had hoped that within a day we'd be back together, only this time as part of the royal family.

So, of course, you can imagine my shock at seeing Cinderella show up to the ball in the most magnificent dress of them all, the absolute picture of what a princess should look like. We were confused, but Cinderella told us she would explain later, saying only that she was there to cheer us on from the side. And I believed her, and I still believe that she had been telling the truth. But when it came time for my sister and I to meet the prince, his attention was elsewhere.

I know now that you can't help who you fall in love with, but I sure do wish that Cinderella had chosen a better time. My blood boiled with hatred for the girl I once loved as I watched her walk off with the prince. I had truly believed that if I'd only had a few more moments, I could have made him love me instead. I could tell my sister felt the same.

I had thought Cinderella a liar, and my mother grew angry at the girl, too, simply for stealing her children's happiness. So angry, in fact, that she prevented her from seeing the prince again once she arrived home. I could see Cinderella felt bad, too, but my teenage hormone-driven mind refused to forgive her for what she had done. And when the man of her dreams, of our dreams, showed up at our door with a glass slipper in his hand, I pretended Cinderella was not there. I tried on her shoe. I had believed it to be my story, my happy ending, but as it turned out, I was the villain all along.

Sometimes I wonder at my mother's frantic attempts to keep the palace guards from finding Cinderella, her desperate screams and wailing. And sometimes I wonder at Cinderella's equal desperation at breaking down her door, at getting downstairs to the prince. And, above all, I wonder at how she ever found it in her heart to forgive us for all we had ever done to her.

Time and time again, I am reminded of my father. Of how some people are willing to do anything for the ones they love.