I scrunch up my face, squealing, “Eww. Princes don’t lick their fingers.”
“They don’t?”
“No. They use napkins.”
He looks around, and says, “Well, I don’t have a napkin, and I don’t want to waste the icing on my fingers.”
I exaggerate thinking, tapping my finger on my cheek, and then agree, “You’re right. Okay, you can lick your fingers.”
We sit in the sunlight of my room and have our fairytale tea, talking about the flying horses we’ll ride to the magical forest.
“Did I tell you about Carnegie, the caterpillar I met?” he asks.
“You met a caterpillar?”
“The last time I took my steed to the forest, I did. He had some berries he shared with me and then told me a secret,” he says quietly as he sets down his teacup.
“What?!” I exclaim excitedly. “You met a talking caterpillar?”
“I did. Do you want to know what he told me?”
“Mmm hmm,” I hum, nodding my head energetically.
“Well then, he told me he had been living in the magical forest for years, but that he was once a prince.”
“Really? What happened?”
He folds his arms over the tops of his knees and leans his chest against them, saying in a secret whisper, “The kingdom’s sorcerer cast a spell on him, turning him into a caterpillar.”
“Oh no,” I gasp. “Why?”
“Turns out, the king was upset because he told Carnegie to stop sneaking out of his room at night and stealing juice boxes from the fridge, so he had the sorcerer use his magic to turn him into a caterpillar.”
“Daddy!”
He has a playful smile on his face. I know he’s teasing me since he’s been getting on to me about waking up and drinking juice boxes at night. Last night he scared me when he turned on the kitchen light and caught me drinking an apple juice.
“You’re not gonna cast a spell on me, are you? I don’t wanna be a caterpillar.”
“Why not? I could introduce you to Carnegie.”
“But I would miss you,” I pout.
He reaches out his arms for me. “Come here, baby doll,” he says as he turns in the small chair and stretches out his legs. Hoisting me up on his lap, he wraps his big arms around me and makes me giggle when he kisses the tip of my nose. “I’d never cast a spell on you and send you away. You’re my little girl, you know that?”
“I thought I was a big girl now that I’m five.”
“No matter how big you get, you’ll always be my little girl. I love you more than anything.”
“Anything? Even more than chocolate?”
I watch him laugh, big smile, lines at the corners of his eyes. “Even more than chocolate.”
I place my hand on his cheek, prickly with his stubble, and tell him, “I love you more than chocolate too.”
He pecks his lips to mine and then asks, “You wanna know what’s sweeter than chocolate?”
“Uh huh.”
Before I can leap off his lap, he starts playfully attacking my neck, tickling me as he blows raspberries and then plops us on the floor as I roll around, laughing and squealing. He doesn’t stop until the doorbell rings. As I try and catch my breath from all the laughing, he sits up on his knees and orders, “Hop on.”
I get off the floor and jump on his back, taking a piggyback ride all the way to the front door.
You’ve heard the saying, “Beware of what lies on the other side,” right? Neither of us could have possibly imagined how our lives would be forever changed when he opened that door. I used to wish that someone would cast a spell on me, forever changing me into a caterpillar. I could’ve had a good life, living in the mythical forest with Carnegie. Spending our days searching for berries and floating aimlessly on the lily pads in the pond. But instead, I was about to find out the hard truth of life at the age of five. The truth they keep from you as a small child, allowing you to believe that the fairytales are real . . . but they aren’t. And neither is magic.
“Cook County P.D.,” is all I hear as men come charging into the house.
Chaos. Loud chaos.
“Daddy!” I scream, scared, panicked, clinging my arms around his neck like a vice when a man grabs for me. “DADDY!”
“It’s okay, baby,” I hear my dad say as another man is talking at the same time.
“You’re under arrest.”
I don’t know what those words mean as ice cold fear runs through me, fisting my daddy’s shirt in my hands, unwilling to let go of him.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay,” he keeps repeating, but his voice is different and I think he’s scared too.
“You need to come with me,” the man who’s grabbing me says.
“No! Let go!”
I begin kicking my legs when I’m pried off my daddy’s back, stretching his shirt because I have my hands clamped so tightly to the fabric as I’m being pulled away.
I see my daddy’s eyes—blue eyes—as he turns to look at me. “It’s okay,” he says calmly, but I don’t believe him. “Don’t be scared. It’s okay.”
“No, Daddy!” I cry out as the tears fall. I hold on to his shirt until I am pulled so far back it pops out of my hands.
The moment I am no longer touching the man that sings to me at night, that puts my hair in pigtails, that dances with me while I stand on top of his feet, I’m whisked away. I see my prince drop to his knees as I watch over the man’s shoulder who’s carrying me away.