A Stepmother’s Lament
An unedited, timed write on a prompt about Cinderella
Photo by Ries Bosch on Unsplash
A Stepmother’s Lament
by Cynthia Cummins
I like it out here by the ash pile. I come out here a lot to smoke a cigarette while the girls are at school. It’s pleasant enough, despite the odor of horse manure from the stables, despite the outhouse they always fail to mention when they talk about this so-called farm in all the stories. A dump, more like it.
When I met him I thought he was monied. Flashing that velvet pouch and those gold coins at the inn where I worked as a barmaid. Raising my two girls alone. Who wouldn’t run off with a man like that, possessed of all his teeth and not too caked in mud despite being a farmer?
It was all okay at first. Romantic. Lots of sexy times. Lots of flowers and the occasional ball. But soon it changed.
That daughter of his slouching about in her goth clothes and makeup, insisting on sweeping the kitchen floor whether it needed it or not. Talking to the cats so they wouldn’t hunt. Talking to the rats they were supposed to kill.
Meanwhile, her father’s left ME to get my two AND her dressed and out the door, plus teaching them to sew and all that. My girls are all thumbs, while she is nimble and quick. My daughters run to plump, while she – in my opinion – is not eating enough or has disordered eating. I don’t have time to investigate, since my husband is off at the palace entreating the King for a knightship or a place in the army.
Seriously! In all accounts of our lives he’s never mentioned! It’s just Cindy, Cindy, Cindy. And the unidentified, long-suffering stepmother? That’s me.
You want to know about blended families? Come see me. Cindy undermines me at every turn, saying to her father how her bed was so lumpy and her room so cold that she had to sleep by the woodstove. How she never gets donuts like my girls. (That’s a bald-faced lie. She turns up her nose at donuts!)
And then she uses just that one glass and that one bowl, setting them on the table after the meal, while my gals have glasses and bowls and plates all over the house and – boy! – doesn’t my husband notice THAT! “What are all these dishes doing all over the house? Where did all the glasses go? Why, Cindy only uses one glass and one bowl. And Cindy never makes a fuss.”
Whereas my girls are crying and laughing and getting hysterically angry all in the same hour. And they’re concerned with their fashion choices. And they appreciate a little flair. What’s wrong with wanting beauty and luxury instead of austerity?
He’s in. He’s out. And I’m alone with that little bitch, determined to squeeze me and mine out. Well, I’m not going to…
