My Life

I was eight years old when my mother died. It was a very sad time for me, and I had no one to talk to, for my father was away and my two older brothers wanted nothing to do with me. I can't blame them--what would two teenage boys on the spring of adulthood want with a small girl? So I locked myself away, just trying to stay out of everyone's way.

The following winter, Father returned home, and he brought with him a new wife--a new mother. She was much younger than him, but her face was stern. Her stares matched perfectly with the icy blue color of her eyes. Her thick, brown hair was always styled up in a perfect bun, styled with some lace and a beautiful gold pin. I remember that pin the most. Looking back, it was rather silly of me to covet it so much; it was rather plain, and probably not worth as much as my girlish mind figured it would be, yet it still held my attention.

Mama Marie came from the northern part of the country, and her father and mine had been business partners for many years. Marie was just what Father was looking for; a young, healthy woman who would not stand for any mischief or trouble-making in her household, especially from me. I needed to become a proper young lady, after all, and Mama Marie was the only one around who could teach me.

No infraction was too small for her. My dress tied unevenly? Sweep the kitchen. My hair not brushed enough to her liking? Mop the dining hall. Caught eating between meals without permission? Clean the fireplace.

And the older I got, the worse the punishments came. I can count a handful of times where I was up before sunrise and back in bed long past midnight because of the  list of chores she wanted me to complete. There was no one there to rescue me, what with my Father away on business all the time and my brothers now fully-grown and running households of their own. No, it was just me and her, and she made damn sure that she would always reign. Was she jealous of me and my youth? Or was she just a spiteful woman who had no love in her heart? Who can say, really. I just knew one thing for certain--I hated her.

Still, though, it is because of her that my first husband noticed me. He was a distant cousin of hers who had come to a Yuletide party Mama Marie and Father were holding. Pierre wasn't a handsome man by any account, but he was a good enough man with more than enough wealth and titles to make a young woman happy. More importantly, he was a way to escape the clutches of my stepmother. That night, I used everything Mama Marie taught me. How to properly dress, how to make an entrance, how to dance--I did everything flawlessly. I was the talk of the ball that night, and no one, not even Mama Marie, could take that from me.

Pierre didn't leave right away that night, and wound up spending over a week at our estate, spending most of his time to get to know me. A perfect courtship it was. Father couldn't have been happier, as he was finally getting rid of his last child. Mama Marie...I honestly don't know how she felt about the match. She kept silent and just gave her infamous straight-line "smile," if you could call it that.

Our wedding took place that following spring. The church was filled with violets and baby breath, and the air smelled of the dozen or so different pastries that were being baked for the reception. Pierre never looked happier, and I was happy to be free--free from chores, free to run my own house, and most importantly, free from Mama Marie.

My life with Pierre went as these things usually go. I moved in, we settled, fell out of first love but still liked each other enough that the arrangement wasn't bad. He was a good starter husband, I will give him that. Besides, he gave me my two beautiful daughters. Who could ask for more?

Then again, he did have the bad luck to catch that dreadful fever. He was in bed for almost two months before he passed. Bless his soul--he deserved better than that, I must admit. Crush my girls' heart to watch their father die like that.

I guess that's something you have in common with them, then.

Your father and I...well! We just happened to meet by chance one day as I was taking my girls for a walk along the promenade. They needed the fresh air and I needed a chance to think. I didn't want to stay at that mansion anymore. Mama Marie felt that, as Pierre was her relative, it was up to her to check up on me and my daughters. She would come by unannounced, make outrageous demands I was not prepared to make, and scold me for how I was raising the girls. I had to find another way out. Someone father away and not related in any sort to her.

I first noticed your father as he sat at a small cafe, smiling sadly to himself. "Your daughters are charming," he said to me. "They make me miss mine back home." I thanked him and next thing I knew, the girls had run to some store, eying the latest toys from Paris in the window, and your father and I were having a lovely chat. We kept running into him during our walks, and soon I invited him to tea one day. And then he kept coming and coming.

He always talked about you. You were his everything. "Your daughters would be perfect playmates for my Cinderella. I am sure of this!" he constantly told me. But I knew what was going through his mind of his. He wasn't looking for a wife for himself--no, he was the sort of man where only one woman could ever hold his heart like that. No, he was looking for a mother for you. He wanted to use me just like Mama Marie used me. And it infuriated me. Nevertheless, I kept having him over. There was something unmistakeably charasmatic about him that made it difficult to push him away.

I said yes when he proposed, mostly so I could get out of the watchful, glaring, disapproving eyes of Mama Marie. The ceremony was small, and I packed up all of the belongings and moved here.

Unfortunate that the riding accident happened so soon after the wedding. We barely made it a year. Pity.

But now, you see, my dear Cinderella, I had a small problem. I do not want my girls to ever experience what I did. They are lovely girls who deserve to live in a life of luxury, and never lift a finger. I am certainly not going back to that life. What nonsense! A woman of my age and rank cleaning fireplaces in her free time? Pish-posh!

But you, Cinderella. You will do this. You have to do this. Who else is going to take in an orphan like you? You work to stay here. That's the deal. We may be nobles, but money does run out, and we have to keep to a tight budget. So keep your pretty little head up high. I'm not planning on keeping you here forever.

Just until my girls are married off. Then we can deal with you.

It's quite alright. No need to thank me. Thank Mama Marie. After all, you're not the only one with a "wicked" stepmother.