Mary Helen Porter

Once a Fairytale

 

When I was five, I begged my mom to let me play dress-up instead of going to

preschool. She always said no, but I never gave up hope. I kept asking, and asking

everyday. Tommy and Beth were mean and Mrs. Bonny put me in time out for playing

with the frogs on the playground. Didn’t she know they were kings? I was a silly kid.

One full of wonder and hope. I believed all those fairytales and stories about princesses,

knights, fairies, and enchanted stones. That was my father’s fault. A lot of things were

my father’s fault. My mom always told me my father was a bad, bad man. I believed her

too, except when I thought about our fairytales.

 

***

 

I thought I was kissing princes, but they were just toads. I realized this when Matt

told me to put on that pretty dress, the one he liked. It was yellow and warm like I use to

be. He told me to dance, so I danced. I was his puppet and his entertainment, his

‘princess’. But he was not my prince; I knew that from the start. I danced and pretended

to be content in Matt’s arms. We were in a crowded room, filled with dancing couples

that were looking at us. They thought we were golden because he loved me and I was

living a fairytale. The truth is, he only loved me when put in the spotlight. The

background was much darker, lonelier. But at least there I could read my fairytales and

hope some day I’d finally kiss a prince.

I asked him if he loves me and he said yes rather quickly. I told him he doesn’t

and he argued until he thought he won. He was a frog, no, a toad. I left him that night,

saying something about toads. I guess I was still silly at that age, twenty-two. That’s what

fairytales do to you; they make you want the toad to be a price, which just sounds silly.

 

***

 

Before my dad went to jail, he read stories to me every night before I put my head

on my pillow. That was my favorite time, just me and him and our books. These books

were our religion and our salvation. I wore a crown and a tutu over my PJs and sat on my

bed while he spoke the words that I believed with my heart and soul. I would barely

blink, listening to the words he said. When he was done, I always asked him to read

another one, I always wanted more. But he never told more than one story, so the other

nights can get a story too he said. I fell asleep dreaming about what good a knight would

do to save a queen and wake up to police knocking on the door, coming for my father.

He’s a bad man, my mom explained to me. He did a bad thing and he was going

to pay. How could my father, the one that told me fairytales every night do something

bad? I didn’t take off my crown and tutu for three weeks straight after they took him

away. I never understood why my father did what he did and I still don’t. He was a prince

to me, even if he was a toad to someone else.

 

***

 

It was her fifth birthday and I bought her a story and a crown. Buying these items felt

right considering the impact they had on me. The stories were my life and everything I

hoped my life would be. My life wasn’t a fairytale, but it wasn’t a nightmare either. I

always thought I’d marry a prince and be a queen, but instead I got Maggie. Maggie was

turning five and lived in the pastel green room. It fit her because she loved frogs, but not

toads. Just like me.