Be silent. Be docile.

Those are the words my dying mother left me with.

Be silent. Be docile.

And I nodded my little head, because what else can you do when your mother’s withering before your eyes like a daisy?

You nod, that’s what you do. You promise, you swear you love her, you lower your eyes from her gaunt face and kiss her weak palm.

“I’ll be good. I’ll be silent and docile, I swear it, mama.”

And the grave opens up for her.

I loved my mother, I truly did, she was weak, she was soft and meek. The kind of woman whose moth is forever in a state of amen. That kind of woman that never days to demand.

But I loved her. I abhorred her weakness, I cannot deny that. I loathed her teaching me to be like her.

“Cinderella, don’t talk back to your father.” “Cinderella put on more clothes, your father’s friends are coming.” “Cinderella, darling, cross your legs and try not to look into people’s eyes, it’s simply rude.”

I followed her instruction, I swallowed whatever burning anger I might have had. I shoved away that part of me that wanted to speak up and refuse. But as much as I detested her teachings and her submission to the world, I loved my mom.

All day I’d mourn. I’d think bitter thoughts. My mother is gone. My mother is making friends with the maggots.

Then spring came and flooded the world. The sun, which had been grey for months, flashed a blinding yellow and the balmy wind played with my blond curls. Life felt renewed, but grief never goes away, does it? You stroll down the lane, the gravel crunching underneath your shoes, and grief is right beside you, breathing down your neck, becoming another sort of shadow.

My father had remarried, he wedded a friend of my mother on a warm day with the snow melting and dripping down the maple tree leaves.

I swallowed, watching the exhausted priest bless them. I grit my teeth, I curl my fingers, the nails stabbing into my palms. Everything in me was in revolt. My inner child wanted an explanation Why? How could you? The both of you, how could you?

I recalled my mother’s voice, how soft and fragile. Be silent, be docile.

I sealed my lips. I dug my nails further into the skin of my palms, grateful for the pain stabilizing the anger.

My stepmother and her two daughters moved into our house soon enough and that’s when the horror began.

The beating, the scraps of food, the constant slaps, and threadbare clothes. It was another sort of damage, this betrayal, my mother’s friend treating me this way.

She would hurl insults at me like a wounded jaguar, her attacks disorganized. I found my stepmother contradictory. She’d send a fist through my jaw with tears in her eyes and I’d frown. Not because of the pain, no, I was used to that.

I’d frown, my eyes narrowing, because I couldn’t understand it. She hurts me, but somehow it’s her that is crying behind the bathroom door.

She’d slap me and I’d tumble to the floor, then she’d gasp and reach out for me in an almost motherly way. But she would catch herself and run out of the living room, holding up the hem of her dress.

Over time I became puzzled. Who wouldn’t be in this situation? It is so much harder to understand wickedness when it can shed tears.

I wanted to retaliate, believe me, but my mother’s voice was incessant. Be silent. Be docile. Those two words played inside my head like a broken record.

“Never speak up, that’ll keep you safe in this world.”

“Don’t bother your father, Cinderella.”

“Don’t raise your voice.”

All her instructions were embedded in my skull.

So I grit my teeth. I chewed my fingernails raw to stop myself from speaking up against my stepmother’s injustices. I put a smile on my face. I called her mommy.

One snowy morning, I woke up with bleary eyes. I was not sure if it was the coldness of the kitchen floor, my aching throat, or the cinder I could taste in my mouth. I cannot exactly pinpoint what it was, but violence took over me.

Since then, when my stepmother would push me down the stairs as I held a bucket or a mop when she’d point at me and humiliate me in front of her vapid friends, I would stretch my lips into a smile. I was glad for that cup of tea she’d lifted to her lips. I was glad to be the one that prepared it and brought it to her.

As the months ran on, my stepmother began to deteriorate. She’d push away trays of food, refusing to talk for weeks at times. Her daughters watched her with wide, terrified eyes, like deer caught in headlights. As much as I despised them, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity. Losing your mother… there isn’t a language for that kind of grief.

Be silent, be docile. I swallow my question.

On a grey day with my father and my stepsisters at church, I walked into my stepmother’s room, a basket in hand to gather all the dirty clothes. On Sundays, I am meant to clean the entire house from room to basement to cedar.

I pulled apart the curtain, the sunlight streamed in, and I heard the sheet ruffling as my stepmother groaned and begged for me to shut the curtain.

I ignored her, exhausted, my limbs weary.

I arranged the room, I bent down and picked up the clothes strewn across the floors. My stepmother rested her back against the headboard. I could sense her eyes on me, her eyes running over my skin as she measured me, trying to understand me like I tried to understand her.

“You’re still very small, Cinderella.” The weakness of her voice shocked me. “You’re similar to your mother in that regard.

She shook her head weakly and I had a sudden realization that I could physically hurt her. I could hurt her so easily. The thought, to my surprise, repulsed me.

My stepmother went on, “You are so small. So thin…” She shook her head and I wondered how much time she had before she broke like a twig.

“Cinderella, you and your mother… how do you both do it? Where are you holding all that grief? All that anger? Because I know you are angry. All that I’ve done to you… you’re no saint as much as you want to try and pretend. You are angry.”

She tapped her hand on the mattress, inviting me to come to her. I dropped the basket and walked towards her. I should run. But I want to speak and understand. I sit next to my stepmother and I lean against the headboard.

She picked up my hand and intertwined our fingers together. I swallowed. I chewed the inside of my cheeks to stop the tears. Guilt was eating me raw. Before she goes I needed to know. My voice was just a whisper.

“Why?”

She sighed and tells me in a voice damaged with guilt,

“I loved your mother. I loved her senseless and I know she loved me too. But she couldn’t disobey her parents. She couldn’t leave your father. The dead ought to be respected but they should also be called for what they were and your mother was a coward, Cinderella. She couldn’t dare oppose anyone, even for her own happiness. And I watched her in this loveless marriage. I watched her through her miscarriages, her heart breaking with every single one, and with her husband’s indifference. I watched her soul disintegrate with each passing day and I couldn’t just stand by and watch that happen to you. I couldn’t help your mother, but you… I wanted to save you somehow.”

Tears tumbled down my cheeks. Rapidly, with sadness, I poured out,

“It’s me, it’s me, I’m sorry. I’ve been poisoning you for months. I’m sorry, please forgive me. I’ll bring the doctor.”

She laughed. Her hand tightened on my own as I made a gesture of getting up. I implored,

“Please let me call the doctor. I’m sure they’ll know how to treat it when they know what kind of poison I used.:

“Oh darling, stop it, you don’t understand how happy you made me. At least I’ll get to see your mother again.” She smiled at me. The pallor of her face was terrifying.

I rested my head on her shoulder. I sniffed and she wiped away my tears. She told me how she loved me. Her voice broke into a plea,

“Wickedness and love is a terrible mix, forgive me, Cinderella.”

I call her mother.

Serina Folly was inspired to write this piece by Sara Maitland’s The Wicked Stepmother’s Lament. Inspired by Sara Maitland’s version, Serina aimed to tell the story from Cinderella’s point of view and showcase a deeper insight as to how the abuse Cinderella endured impacted her as a person. She created a version where Cinderella stands up for herself.