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Our mother made the sacrifice.
She would have done anything for Cinderella; the girl with the baby face and the heart as wild as the ocean.
At five minutes to Midnight she walked onto to the stage. She stood in the center, among the violinists. No-one noticed.
For a moment she stood there – a somber statue. She surveyed the scene. Her dress was black, her face masked. Her eyes gleamed through it, filled with love as she looked at the daughter she was saving. She turned to us.
My other sister reached for my hand. She squeezed it.
Then our mother threw her arms into the air.
"I'm a witch," she shouted over the sounds of the ball. The violins screeched to silence. "And I'm going to blow this place to the ground."
