In many stories, children

live without a real mother 

defenseless to the evils that 

lurk in the dreary forests 

with grotesque claws, sharpened horns,

and bellowing voices. 

However, in many stories

these evils manifest disguised

as a harlot with 

blood-red lipstick

and taste for little children. 

With their idiot father off 

drowning in despair 

or chasing his dreams

the children are left 

to the clutches of a 

sadistic woman of charm.

And in the small eyes of 

real children,

they are alone and left to 

fend for themselves just 

like their fantastical counterparts.

However, with eyes so small and full 

of fear for change

the truth may not be so apparent

the forest may not be so dark

and they may not be so alone.

After 15 years of courthouses and

vexed arguments, 

my divorcee father was finally 

reunited with his children.

And for the first time, I too got to live

in a house of candy, gingerbread, 

and witches.

Late one night in our new saccharin home

I hear whispers from my father’s room,

her grating voice 

demanding and firm.

Pressed to the sticky caramel door,

I overhear the words

“send her away”

Just like the children

in these stories

I was to be cast aside 

to the dark forest

with no crumbs to lead me home. 

Another voice chimes 

“she can’t leave!”

With those words, 

I was no longer defenseless.

However, my protector 

was no knight in 

shining armor nor was it 

the mother I was longing for.

To my horror the voice wanting to

send me away was weak and idiotic. 

To my shock the voice wanting me to stay

was the same demanding and firm voice

that belonged to my stepmother.

As the veil slid off her face 

I realized that there was 

no blood-red lipstick

nor was there a witch or enchantress.

This narrative of wicked stepmothers

and misguided idiot fathers is tired. 

Her bitter death is not necessary for 

my happy ending 

or my reunification with my father.

Often the bonds of blood are

treasured beyond all else.

Nonetheless, blood does not equal love

nor is blood necessary to love.  

Sometimes we seem to forget 

our blood is all the same shade of red.