I sweep the wood floor beneath my feet, trying to make our small home (if it can be called that) somewhat habitable. Ha! I bet you didn't think I knew words like that, did you? Well, I can read, too! I read those romance novels, the cheap ones that only cost a sou. I love them. They take me away from this cold world where there's never enough to eat and the only way to live is to steal. They take me to a place where a Princess gets rescued by a Knight in Shining Armor who is also a Prince and who is rich and has a castle, and they fall in love in the end and live Happily Ever After.

My husband calls me foolish for reading them, and perhaps he's right because, you see, there really is no Happy Ever After. You may meet your Prince and fall in love with him, but he is not perfect. In fact, he may be a far cry from it, but you end up loving him anyway. You can't help it. You follow him into the very depths of Hell because you love him, and because you love your girls and it is the only way your girls will be able to eat. Your beautiful girls with red and brown hair, their faces smeared with dirt and their clothes torn and dirty, and you wish that you could give them more; more than this small apartment you all call home. More than hard bread for dinner, more than this measly existence which you are forced to live.

Your husband is no Prince. At least, he is not the kind in the novel. He is tall and broad-shouldered, true, but he is cunning as a Prince is not and steals as a Prince will never do. But you cannot fault him for it, because it is the only option. What people call “honest work” does not bring in enough money to take care of your family. So you steal and you beg and you cheat and you lie. You take from the dead and from the living alike, using it to feed your family. You sell your soul to Satan, but it is worth it because it will keep your girls alive one more day. You know you are doomed to Hell, but you cannot bring yourself to care anymore because you have known it already long ago, and your husband will be going there with you anyway, so what's the matter?

Your husband sometimes stays up and worries when he thinks everyone else is asleep. He sits at the small table in the middle of the room, his head in his hands, sounds of frustration and sorrow coming from him every now and then. So much so that you want to reach out and hold him, to comfort him, because seeing him in so much pain hurts you as well, and it makes tears come to your eyes. But you hold yourself back, for you know he will not accept your comfort because he feels that he must look like he is strong. So when he comes back to the bed both of you share, you move up beside him, pretending that you are asleep, and rest your head in the crook of his neck. And his arms come around you, and you feel him plant a kiss in your hair even though it is dirty and greasy, and you feel like crying again because, even though he does not express it at any other time, you know by this gesture that he still loves you, even despite the hopelessness of your situation and the utter agony that each day is.

And then there's your husband's gang. A group of rowdy, unruly rascals that you dare not trust, but that your husband does every night when he goes out to steal. He trusts them to watch his back and warn him if the police are coming. And every night he goes out with them, you sit at home and pray. Even though you know God will not hear you because he left you long ago, you pray without fail each time he leaves. You pray for his safe return, that the men in his gang will not betray him and that he will come home to you and sit and worry and then press a kiss to your hair. You do not trust any of them, not even for a second, and you wish you could go along with them so you could keep an eye on your husband, but you know that it will only slow them down and you will get in the way. And then when he finally does come home, you have to stop yourself from rushing to him and embracing him and embarrassing him in front of his gang. But that's alright, because you know that, once thei r gone, you can lay down in bed and hold him as tight as you want, your face buried in the crook of his neck. And he will sigh in mock exasperation and shake his head and put his arms around you and hold you just as tight, because you think he was worried about you, too, he just doesn't want to show it.

And yet, through all of these things that you go through together, you find there are times when you do not trust him, where you think he lies to you for his own gain. And there are times when he does not trust you. It hurts you every time he eyes you suspiciously, when he questions your actions extensively because he does not trust you in this matter And you sit and wonder how love can exist without trust?

You will never live Happily Ever After. At least, not in the definition that is expressed in the novels. Happily Ever After is merely a dream for women like me to whom God has cast aside, leaving her to fend for herself. And I will continue to read them and dream of a better life for me and my husband and my girls. But in the mean time, I will live in what life I have, with its hopelessness and desolate situations that we are thrust into. And I will try my best to survive until death claims me, and I descend to Hell where I will wait for my husband there. And it won't matter that we're in Hell because we'll be together, and we've already been through Hell here on Earth, so what will it matter if we go through it one more time?

Happily Ever After is a fable, and you are not a Princess and your husband is neither a Prince nor a Knight in Shining Armor. So you make do with what you have. Because it is all you have. And it is all you ever will have. And that's Life.

[Main Index]
URL: