I am just so sick and tired of copping all flack from this world. Even now in these modern times people are still placing judgements on me, like “wicked” or “evil”. Has anyone ever asked me for my perspective on the events of Cynthia, who you people cruelly refer to as Cinderella? No way! So by now you may be wondering why I haven’t come forward before to present my case for the world to judge. Well the truth is that until not recent times have the stepmothers of this world been coping a bad name from the deceitful truths of my parenting styles.
I am not trying to say that my dear Cynthia didn’t deserve some of my harsh treatments, but the truth about my parenting styles have defiantly been modified over the course of history. One thing you must understand is why wouldn’t I want a beautiful young lady to live happily ever after. I am Cinderella’s stepmother and this is my story. To explain my side of events, first we must go back to the beginning, my beginning. When I was just a little girl the only things I learnt about was how to be a good wife.
Instead of playing in the fields of wildflowers my mother summoned me to perfecting “womanly Arts”, like singing, embroidery and domestic duties. While other young ladies amongst the village wore loose fighting dresses, I was given the responsibility of wearing corsets with extravagant gowns. This was all to make me a more attractive asset to be sold off to a man in order to raise my family’s lineage. My father was a landowner which did come with lots of benefits like a hot meal ever night and lavish silverware.
But from the day I was born I would never make decisions for myself, being passed over from my Fathers house to that of my husbands and love wasn’t even something I could even consider. I wasn’t even allowed to indulge in romance books as my mother strongly disagreed with that fact that people can fall for each other. In fact, according to modern times my mother and I had an appalling relationship. The most affectionate thing my mother ever said to me was “we bring the spoon to our mouth not our mouth to our spoon”. At the age of 16 I was married off to my husband who was not much older then me and only just started to grow facial hair. Walter was a lovely man with a heart big enough to keep the rivers of England flowing for an eternity. Even because of that Walter and I never loved each other, either because we were forced together or that we were so young we never knew the true values of a relationship. I was like a trained chimpanzee that did what I was told on my command and I was dismissed to my sleeping quarters when they had tired of me. Still, I did my duty obediently and diligently, without complaint.
Looking back maybe I could have been a better wife to Walter. More supportive. More affectionate. Walter and I were married for four years before he committed the dreadful act of suicide. I was aged just 21 had two young twin daughters aged 4. For the first time in my life I was completely free. I had no one controlling me and I loved it. Being the widow of Walter came with great wealth as I was the sole inheritor of not only money but vast plots of land. It was a completely new experience to me being able to buy goods without the consent of men.
I also enjoyed managing the land making sure the tenants paid their rent and expanding my portfolio. I had the best tutors in the land come and teach my girls to read and write, a fairly uncommon skill back in those days. I also went on many a holidays amongst the English countryside and on of those holidays was where I meet Marc. Marc was a well-known trader throughout the lands and had a charm in his eye that could seduce the devil. He was a man of many tales from his travels through out the world looking for new and exotic items he could sell.
Marc also being a widow, I could easily relate to him and felt a strong passion towards him. Before too long we were wedded and I packed up the twins and I moved to Marc’s cottage in the countryside. Marc was so compassionate towards my two daughters and felt deep love for them. The first time I met Marc’s daughter, Cynthia I was truly shocked with her beauty. My daughters we of sturdy build with harsh features, I loved them tenderly and found them to be beautiful in their own right. Cynthia on the other hand was a girl a natural beauty and was the most adorable angelic creature I had ever laid my yes on. Her elegant bone structure made her a girl of beauty and her eyes twinkled in the suns rays. The only thing that detracted from Cynthia was her soot-covered clothes that draped from her frame. “How do you do, Lady Tremaine” Cynthia said. “Rather fine Cynthia” I replied. Before I could continue my conversation with the 12 year old she abruptly kicked me in the shin and ran off. Marc was reassuring that Cynthia would soon become fond of me. Although the relationship between Cynthia and me was never as strong as I would have wanted, she soon became more accepting of me. Two years soon passed and Marc and myself were still happily married with the kids coming to the realisation that stepparents aren’t evil as they first thought. But this wasn’t to last! It was on one of Marc’s business trips when he did not return. Marc just disappeared off the face of the Earth never to be seen again. It still haunts me to this day whether Marc ran away on the kids and I or whether some form of foul play was involved. There was no closure for our family without the return of Marc that distort Cynthia greatly. Once I had realised that marc was not to ever come home it took the last happiness I ever had.
I grieved his loss by locking myself in the sleeping quarters with no food for a week. I greatly regret this period where I rejected my children with my own sorrow. It was not until my two daughters Anastasia and Drizella came into my light ridden room one afternoon with their hair knotted and clothes in an appalling state that I realised that the children needed a mother now more than ever. So here is where the story starts to villainies me. They say that I treated Cynthia cruelly. That I made dear little Cynthia clean tirelessly while my daughters got anything they pleased.
Well let me tell you that is the biggest load I have ever heard! Cynthia could not move on after the death of her beloved father and increasing became more rebellious. She seemed to do the complete opposite of any command I gave her. I tried to get Cynthia sit quietly with the tutors as I had once done, but she would only cause trouble. I lost track of the amount of teachers she went through because of the tricks she pulled on them. The day Cynthia put a burning coal on the seat of her tutor was the action that pushed me over the edge. I did as any other parent would do to discipline their child! As I didn’t believe in physical violence against anyone, I gave Cynthia domestic tasks around the home and monitored her like a tyrant. There is no denying that I made Cynthia scrub the floors and do the laundry but it was her decision to cause mischief and mine to discipline the same way as my own daughters. When the invitation for the Prince’s ball arrived I agreed to allow the girls to go, even Cynthia, as long as they took care of their responsibilities. I didn’t even require Cynthia to attend her lessons as long as she cleaned the floors in the kitchen.
As the story goes a fairy godmother created the dress for Cinderella, but in fact I had the dress made for her as a surprise and hid away in the closet. I had an extravagant pair of jewel-covered shoes made for Cynthia to accommodate her unusually small foot, a foot the size of a child’s. The whole story about the fairy godmother is one big lie that people have been retelling for generations. Although this whole story with Cinderella happened many centuries ago, surely with the science of today you would realise that magic is not possible and fairy godmothers do not exist. Instead of doing her chores on the day of the ball Cynthia discovered a new love for the boy who cleaned the stables and spent the day with him. I was so furious when I found this out I smashed my favourite mug against the marble bench top in the kitchen. I was absolutely disgusted thinking about what those two teenagers may of done. So to avoid this happening in the future I instantly dismissed the boy of his job. What would it of looked like If I had allowed Cynthia to attend the ball?
My own girls had completed their schoolwork for the day and did extra chores around the home so I couldn’t possibly deny their right to attend. I did consider myself staying behind and looking after Cynthia but in all honesty I hadn’t seen this level of extravagance since I was married to Walter. A woman deserves a night out. I had spent years alone managing my home and the children without a night off, so I figured it was my obligation to attend. The ball was lavish, even for me. I had never seen so many delicacies in one venue.
I new that the prince was looking for a wife but my two girls didn’t really have a chance with their masculine traits. My business there was only of entertainment and mingling amongst the town’s finest folk. When Cynthia walked through the revolving doors into the palace, I was stunned with shock. Not only had she disobeyed my orders but also she had broken the lock to get into my closet and retrieve her dress and shoes. But I could not bring myself to send Cynthia home when she looked absolutely beautiful and all of the attention in the room was on her. The ravishing dress made her eye’s gleam throughout the room.
It looked as though she had fallen from heaven. The prince invited Cynthia to dance and lustfully kissed her hand. At some point during the night, well after the hours of midnight Cynthia left without an explanation. In doing so she left behind one of her gorgeous shoes on stairs of the building. The prince gripped this slipper with booth hands against his heart and vowed to find his beloved again. Before I left that night I informed one of the princess servants that the owner of the slipper lived at my residence and could be visited upon the next morning.
I said nothing to Cynthia when we arrived home in the early morning as I thought it would be a wonderful surprise for her that the prince was coming. When I asked her about what had happened with the prince she just rolled over and started sobbing. The following morning the prince arrived at our modest little home as well as his entourage. I was beside myself with excitement. At first Cynthia was so shocked she locked herself in her quarters and the impatience of the prince grew by the minute. After some persuasion from her mother, she was down in a flash.
To say it was a fairy-tale reunion would be a lie, as the prince would not even talk to Cynthia in her maid clothes. However once he tried the shoe on Cynthia with a perfect fit and was shown her dress he knew he had found his true love. The Prince dropped to one knee and before I knew it she was wisped onto the back of his horse riding off into distance. I don’t know why people are so willing to believe that stepmothers are any less loving or providing to there step children. Sure, I didn’t have the bodily connection to Cynthia, but she was made from my beloved Marc and I had a duty to her.
I would have never preferred one of my own daughters to marry the prince as I saw Cynthia as my own child. The truth is that I had worked harder and more tirelessly with her than either of my girls. I bribed, and begged, and yelled, and screamed, and pleaded and cried at Cynthia more than booth of my girls combine. We just have to stand back and let horror stories of us stepparents be told. We suffer in silence, finding respite only in the truths we know. I’m not trying to say we’re perfect, just that these step kids aren’t either.
