The Stepsister

I know. I know I got a bad reputation in the story. Called evil even. I am not. No, just a grieving daughter.

They ( the other reporters) forget why I was her stepsister in the first place. It is all about Ella. Is my frustration showing? Forgive me.

Let me take you back to the time before.

“I am sorry. There is nothing more we can do.” I sat beside my mom and sister in the doctor ‘s office. My father lays in a hospital bed a few doors away.

He got weak just six short months before then. Tests and scans finally gave us the answer. Cancer. Aggressive cancer. 

They tried all the expected things. Even some experimental ones. 

Now we have reached the end. My sister and I hold each other and sob. Mom’s lips quiver as the doctor explains hospice care.

He comes home to die.

She meets Ella’s father in a support group for those who have lost their spouse to cancer.

Friends, at first… it happened too soon, you see. Only a year and a month after father passed, they were dating. You must see that it was far too soon, how it made my sister and I feel? You understand, don’t you?

“He asked for my hand.” She announced six months later, nineteen months after the man she promised to love forever left this earth.

We were furious. Had a right to be. 

“Mother, you can’t. It is much too soon.”

“Girls, your father and I discussed it. He wanted me to move on. I know this is hard…”

We didn’t let her finish, just went to our room and slammed the door.

How could she do this to father? Oh remember we were young teenagers at the time. Life had already dealt us a major blow.

The wedding was horrid, for us. Mother and Ella’s father were radiant in their happiness. That she could forgive us for how we looked in the pictures.

They moved into our house  at least we didn’t lose that… Ella moved into our room. Right then, we decided to make her life as hard as possible. Maybe evil fits. We were grieving the loss of a father, her the loss of a mother. We could have helped each other.

Instead we were horrible to her. Tormenting her. 

First, we told her that because she was the youngest out of us, if only by a month, she was responsible for doing all the chores. 

Why didn’t she refuse or tell on us, you may be asking? Well, she was sweet and docile. I know, that makes it even worse.

Mother was distracted by her new marriage, her father by the same. Besides, he wasn’t home a lot. An over the road trucker, as you well know.

It made it too easy. We made her do things we didn’t even have to do, including cleaning out the fireplace. That is where she got the nickname we gave her, Cinderella. 

By the time school started, it was the name that stuck. The teachers and other adults called her Ella but all the kids revered to her as Cinderella.

She was too sweet to protest.

By the time of the dance that led to everything else, she was fully under our control, or so we thought.

It was the dance. Only the most popular, most beautiful dared to show up there. Though it was open to anyone at school, those of lower social standing never came.

“You must iron out dresses, Cinderella. We simply have no time.” 

“Of course.”

“Ella, you aren’t going?” we had left the room when mother asked her this.

“No, I haven’t anything to wear and besides, I’m not popular enough to attend.”

“The dance is open to all, right?” she questions.

“Yes but…” She returned to ironing our dresses.

Mother frowned and began to plan.

She went through her own closet and found her old prom dress. While Ella prepared ours, mother was making one for her. Her sewing machine was running as she transformed the dress into a modern look. 

We had already left when she presented it to her.

“Oh, it is stunning. I just…”

“You can and will. I shall drive you there.”

“I don’t have a date.”

“It doesn’t matter. The right boy will find you. Now, let’s get your hair and makeup done.”

We didn’t recognize her when she walked in. Our grubby stepsister was transformed into a beautiful lady. A princess even.

She glided across the room, every eye on her.

“Ella,” I squeaked, “is that you?” Later I would realize it was the first time I hadn’t called her Cinderella in a year.

“It is.”

“Where did you get that stunning dress?” my sister asked.

“From your mom. She insisted I come.”

He walks in then. We heard rumors he was coming. To see him though, him and his security. 

That the ambassador’s son would come to a school dance, it seemed highly unlikely.

But there he was, in all his handsome glory. Every girl there was praying he would notice her. Every guy wanted him gone.

The music starts and, to our utter shock and fury, he, Philip the amazing, comes. up to her. Ella.

“May I have this dance?”

She is as shocked as we are. Still, she presents her hand. He takes it. It is the only hand  that he will hold that entire night. 

We stand, fuming, as we watch her transformation from an ugly duck into a graceful swan, right before our eyes.

They glide around the room, this normal gym that has been transformed into a fairy land. Everyone else dances around them.

We find dance partners, not that anyone matters as much as our stepsister and Philip. Literally all eyes are on them.

Several girls and boys try to cut in. None are successful. They remain glued to each other.

It is where it begins. We believe, in the light of day, with Ella back to being Cinderella, all will go back to normal. We are wrong. 

At school, they walk the floors, hand in hand. The ambassador, himself, comes to our house. He speaks to mother and stepdad. 

We listen outside the door.

“I have never seen my Philip this enchanted with any young woman. Will you allow him to court your daughter?” 

We wait with baited breath, praying for a no. Again, we are out of luck.

“She is just as interested. My darling is happy. It is a joy to see. Of course.”

The engagement is announced right after they graduate. We know we have lost.

Now you know the whole story. Do you still think of us as evil?