Della

She is standing in front of her mother’s floor-length mirror in a light blue, strapless chiffon party dress with long white gloves that reach her elbows. Her shoes are a comfortable height, white to match her gloves. Her mother has helped her style her hair and do her makeup for the country club summer dance. Her date is a nice young man from the country club set. He will be in a white tuxedo jacket with black pants like all the younger men wear these days. He will arrive promptly at 6:30 pm and open all the doors for her. He may lightly place his hand on the small of her back as he leads her into rooms. They will make a handsome couple, polite and charming during dinner.

As she gazes at her reflection, she sees them dancing after dinner, gliding around the dance floor. In her mind’s eye, they look graceful, perfect. She is concerned that the image may be too perfect. Like Cinderella and her prince in that new cartoon, she had taken her niece to see at the theatre palace the week before. She hums the song “So This is Love?” What a question. In a fairy tale, no less.

She sees how her life will play out before her. Several more dates like this to the same country club, maybe a trip to the coast with some friends, then her parents will have them for dinner. The young man and her father will sneak to the study as she and her mother clear the table. A conversation takes place over scotch with cigars. She will tidy her curls and touch the pearls her mother has let her borrow for the dinner, a silent prayer that he will be nice. She will lower her shoulders and meet her parents and the young man in the sitting room. She may notice that his left shoe is untied, but she will not embarrass him in front of her father. After several pleasantries, she and the young man will make their way outside to the gazebo for a moment of privacy. He will ask her to marry him. Will she say yes? Will he kiss her? Their first kiss? Will she finally believe the fairy tale, even if there is no musical crescendo to match the moment?

Her mother re-enters the room and gazes silently into the mirror. A small smile tugs at her lips, her gaze floats up and meets her daughter’s. In that moment, an entire conversation passes between them. Her mother’s memory of the same ritual, soothing comfort that it is all for the best, and she will come to love the joys of being a wife and homemaker. The pearls held delicately in the mother’s right-hand slink down in a long line. There is sadness where their eyes meet. As her mother steps forward to place the pearls around her neck, she feels a sort of pretending settle over her.

For tonight she can be a princess. She will dance with the prince, and hopefully retain both of her shoes. She will come home in a regular car instead of a pumpkin, she will find solace in journaling her thoughts rather than singing to mice. But this is where the pretense ends.

There will not be a Fairy Godmother to help, no faithful dog turned into a footman. No, this Cinderalla will not even feel the sting of reality when she returns home. No burdensome chores. She is free to pass her days in reading, minor tasks around the house with her mother, and wandering the garden in her backyard. Will her life be so different if she accepts the young man’s proposal? Her parents have made quite an effort to ensure that it is no less full of comfort than she is accustomed to.

And yet.

She turns to her mother, pulling an envelope out of her pocket. It is only two weeks old, but already the line where she has folded and unfolded the letter is worn through. There is a coat of arms in the top left corner with a prestigious address. A phrase in Latin beneath it. A question as life-changing as the prince’s. An acceptance after her own proposal. A story far from the fairy tale, but the thought of sharing this with her mother thrills her and brings a small tear to her eye. She is full of dreams and will act.

She stands tall, lowers her shoulders, and shakes out her curls. Touches the pearls at her neck in a sort of prayer that her mother will understand. She extends the envelope to her mother’s waiting hands. Meets the question in her mother’s gaze.

“I won’t marry him.”