text: Dearest Stepdaughter, I have grown ill in the years since you left my care, though many would not call it that. Your father’s house has been taken from me and your stepsisters. Now, we live in a small cottage outside the city where we receive words of abuse from those who pass by or those we see in the market. I tell you this not for sympathy, but so that you might understand how far I have fallen. And in that understanding, you may believe the story I’m about to tell you. In the past few months of my illness, I have begun to reflect on my life as many who see death’s approach so commonly do. I thought of my childhood, of my first marriage, of my daughters, of you and your father, of your mother, and of mine. I see, now, just how cruel I was to you. In a way, I always knew but never accepted it. I was so bitter and so clouded, but I guess I should start at the beginning. As a young girl, I lived alone with my mother in a cottage much like the one I live in now. It was small and cramped, but it had everything we needed. Light would shine in when the sun came up. A rose garden sat next to the little stone building. It wasn’t much, but my mother and I loved it. She was a kind woman, always singing and filling the cottage with beauty. I would spend my days in the garden, tending to my flowers while my mother sang, cooking inside. We had little money. My father died in the war, and had left us a small sum. Though, she never showed it, I knew my mother feared we would run out quickly. There were days we couldn’t afford the extra materials to make me a new dress or even mend an old one, but we never went hungry. My mother would distract me from our misfortunes. She always had a smile on her face and a new game for us to play. I was so happy during that time, but it was short lived. My mother caught the sweating sickness when it swept through our village. One minute, she was laughing and singing. The next, she was laying in bed with sweat pouring down her brow. Within the night, she was gone. The villagers didn’t know what to do with me. I couldn’t stay in the cottage alone and the closest orphanage was a week’s ride away, but no one cared to send me there. I lived in the streets for a year before a lord came to town. He and his daughter were on a tour of his lands, greeting the people as he went. On his way through, he happened upon me. Seeing my torn clothes, he took pity on me. That was when I met your mother and grandfather. She was so beautiful. Her golden hair fell softly past her blue eyes. Her fairness only grew in the years that I knew her. Your grandfather welcomed me into his home. He gave me food and a warm bed. I was grateful, but your mother was not of the same inclination. In exchange for your grandfather’s good will, I was to become his daughter’s handmaiden. My duties were to prepare her food, scrub the floors, wash the windows, the tapestries and drapes, scrub the terrace, sweep the halls and stairs, clean the chimneys, do the mending and the sewing, the laundry, and to see that her pets had their baths. Your mother was known for her kindness, and to many, she was kind. But to me, she was cruel. She ordered me around like I was born to serve her. She would break a vase and blame it on my clumsiness. I would get lashes for things she did. I know it’s hard to hear of your mother in such a way, but that doesn’t make her distaste toward me any less true. To this day, I don’t know what I did to deserve such treatment. I suppose I was never meant to know. Nonetheless, I put up with her tricks and manipulation. I had no choice. I never wanted to return to the streets again. I did my chores with a smile on my face and a kind word at all times. I talked up to your grandfather, complimenting him and helping him when I could. After many years of service, he began to think of me as a second daughter which seemed to increase your mother’s resentment toward me. It seemed like all of my hard work was finally going to pay off, though. On my eighteenth birthday, your grandfather wished to give me a gift. He went to your mother to see what it might be. She suggested he arrange a marriage for me with a wealthy lord. What could be a greater honor than a lowly girl marrying a well to do man? I couldn’t believe it. Your mother, a girl that had been so cruel to me, arranged for me to have a prosperous future. I was to marry the neighboring lord, a widower who was much older than I. His advanced age frightened me, but I was sure my life would turn for the better. It wasn’t until after I moved in with my new husband, that I learned the truth. Your mother was originally betrothed to the widower, but she fell in love with another man, your father. I felt used and foolish. I should have seen that the manipulative girl, I grew up serving, would use me as she always did. She made it so that she could marry whoever she wished while still upholding the obligations her father set forth with the widower. My first husband was cruel, crueler than your mother. I was constantly compared to his late wife. I wasn’t as pretty as she, wasn’t as graceful, nor was I as talented. Nothing I did was good enough. He was demanding. I could not find comfort in my own house. When I spilt the tea or smudged the windows, his abuse turned physical. Despite my pain and torment, I was expected to keep an optimistic attitude especially when we entertained guests. Your mother and father were regulars at our parties and socials. The more I saw her, the cause of my pain, the more I grew to hate her. I know, now, that she had only sought to improve my standing while also helping her own interests. Your mother had not known the man she had set me up with. He had hidden his true side from the public very well. But still, I blamed her for my misery. I had learned to use my own means of manipulation, however. You see, when my daughters were born, I vowed I would protect them. They would not know the pain I’d been through. They would not know life on the streets. They would marry rich men and live happily ever after. They were the only light in my life. I learned to manipulate their father to keep him from ever treating them as he did me. For the most part, it worked. Then, the sweating sickness swept through the land once again. I needn’t tell you who it took from you, but for me, it took my tormenter. My husband died, but I was set free. He had died in his sleep. I knew that my daughters and I were then in danger of losing everything at any moment, but part of me couldn’t help but feel relieved. I grieved in public as I was supposed to, but I couldn’t help but smile that my tormenter was gone. After a month, your father came to see me. He was in deep grief over his wife, your mother. He hoped I would understand. We talked, sent letters to one another, and grew as friends. We bonded over our grief for our late spouses, but my grief wasn’t truly real. I’m afraid my manipulative side took over. I needed to protect my daughters from the poorhouse, and here came a man who needed a companion for himself, and a mother for his daughter. I had every intention of being a good mother to you. I knew what it was like to lose a mother. I thought I was an understanding woman, but the moment I saw you, I was brought back to my life as a handmaid. I was brought back to the day I was sent off to my new husband. You looked so much like your mother. You had her blonde hair and blue eyes. Your skin was fair, and your heart was big. Yet whenever you smiled, I saw your mother’s cruel grin like when she would break something and blame it on me. I had found an understanding person in your father. I had hoped for a better life my daughters and me, and at first, it was. Then, your father left on business. He was always gone, but you know that as much as I do. When he was home, he spent all his free time with you. I only saw him at meals, and he spent even less time with his stepdaughters. I was as alone as ever. I grew to resent you. I had no reason to blame a child, but I did. Like your mother, you caused me pain. My hatred for her transferred to you, and I am so sorry for that. I treated you as I wanted to treat her. I made you my servant. I told you to clean everything. I blamed you when things broke. I tormented you. I abused you. I made you miserable. I am so sorry, Cinderella. I don’t deserve your forgiveness and I am not asking for it, though your kind heart would probably give it. I only wish for you to be happy, now. I wanted to apologize and maybe receive some closure though I know I don’t deserve that either. The doctors tell me I’m not long for this world, and when I go, I fear that will be it for my daughters. I ask that you not take my treatment of you out on them, as I did your mother’s mistreatment unto you. The times, that they were cruel to you, were merely a mirror of me. They have grown since then. I’ve tried to correct the darkness I taught them. Help them when I am gone. At least, let them keep the small cottage we have now. Don’t let them fall as far as I have. Though you may not believe me, know that I am sorry.