The Gifts Daughters Give

Kayleigh Pandolfi
Sep 4, 2018 · 24 min read

Once upon a time, Mommy was the queen of the modeling world. She used to walk along the cat-walks of a local nightclub up in Poughkeepsie, New York, hand-made skinny jeans and a designer jacket hugging her size zero-to-the-infinity-powered frame, her long hair so blond no one believed her when she told them it was real; it was, back then. She sat on a throne made of camera lights and diamond earrings. Real diamonds, sold by real gemologists, not the pathetic ones from Walmart. She once had better, before she met her Prince Charming and he asked her to make him a Daddy. Her consent to his wishes had her dethroned; her stomach couldn’t fit the clothing and the world of fashion no longer had a place for her. The tumor protruding from her stomach swelled beyond what she assumed her body could carry; the food Daddy would make for her didn’t help. When she asked for sweets, or meats rendered down in their own fat, he would gladly provide for her. Away from the lights, her hair lost its shine; the larger her stomach grew, the darker her hair became and her eyes lost their seductive tint. At least, those are the stories she used to tell me.

The morning I came tumbling out from between her legs, Mommy cried, but not tears of joy. They were fat, heavy tears which fell down her still fat, heavy cheeks, salty and ugly. She told me the story of how she looked over her Daughter as the nurses wrapped me in a pink sheet, my hair already thick and golden on my perfectly round skull. My eyes, large like Daddy’s but blue like hers, stared sweetly into Mommy’s tear-stained face after Daddy handed me off to her. She said she saw her reflection in my eyes, the dried mascara rivers that streamed down her face; her hair, now limp and lifeless, was dark and uninviting, with only randomly strewn strands of grey to remind her that her hair was once flaxen and story-book-like. He kissed Mommy’s sticky face and said, “You’ve given us such a beautiful princess.”

That’s the story she tells me, sitting at her vanity while I hold the tip of the bottle of blond hair dye pressed against her darkened skull. The rolls of her body push against her violet dress and over the sides of the chair, but her back still maintains its perfect posture. “That’s what he said.” She tells me, flipping the pages of the story books Daddy bought me when I was much smaller. “He called you a beautiful princess.” She stairs a long time at a picture drawn in the book of a young woman with long golden hair and round, azure eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. You told me that before. Last time, though, I think you mentioned you were a popular singer, and the time before that — ”

“I did a lot before you. I looked much different, too,” she says into the vanity mirror watching as I carefully douse her hairline in the purple goop. She looked back down at the picture. “I suppose he’s right. There is something similar, here. Of course, you got it from me, you know. I sacrificed my beauty just for you.”

“I think you’re still beautiful, ma’am.”

“Aren’t you sweet? Of course, words don’t help.”

“Yes, ma’am you’ve said that before, too.” I start on the underneath of her hairline, and she puts her head down to ensure I get a straight line and don’t mess up; I never do. Besides, no one could ever see any messes against her electronically tanned skin.

“And yet you still think those words will please me, don’t you?”

“Well, I really, really wish so, ma’am, because I think you really are very pretty. But I don’t want you to think I’m arguing with you, because I’m really not, I just think you’re — ”

“That’s enough, thank you. Perhaps, one of these days, we can find something that precious little Daughter can do to really please Mommy, do you think? Then you’d be my princess, too.”

“Yes, ma’am. I would love to. Whatever to make you happy, ma’am, honest. I really want to — ”

“Finish my hair, girl.”

That night, after her hair had reached its proper color and she was left alone to read, she found a story about a little girl whose parents were so poor they had to feed her dirt so she could survive, but the minerals and sediment worked magic in her tummy and turned into gemstones that she would through up and give back to her parents. Her parents were both crowned King and Queen, because some old fairy lady told them that only Princess tummies could turn dirt into gemstones.

“That’s it!” Mommy was so excited after finishing the story. “That’s how we’ll prove that you really are my little princess and how you can repay me for being the best Mommy you’ve ever had. If this little girl’s tummy can turn dirt into gemstones, imagine what your tummy will give me. You want to know for sure that you’re my princess, right? And you want to make Mommy happy and give me gemstones that I deserve, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything for you.” I was always so eager to please her.

For a while, she spent so much time reading the stories to herself, analyzing and researching the possibilities of this gem-making-tummy phenomenon, I assumed she had forgotten the whole ordeal. She paraded around the house, petting the cats and humming the lyrics to The Little Mermaid’s “Part of Your World”. She left me alone while I dusted the wicker shelves and polished her faux-antique, matching cherry wood furniture. Daddy never mentioned anything more about it to me, either. He usually did his normal household duties, spending most of his time in the kitchen browning pounds of ground meat that he would freeze and turn into some other night’s dinner and sneaking me freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies, while Mommy sat on our plush forest-colored sectional, reading the stories she had stopped reading to me.

“Dirt just won’t do, will it?” She said, speaking into her book. Not knowing exactly which of us she was addressing, Daddy and I remained silent and exchanged glances; my large eyes opened to their maximum ability and full of blue-tinted terror, his slightly confused with his thick, black brows arched into an upside-down question mark. She flipped her steel eyes upward and cleared her throat the way an old fifties actress would at the dinner-table-scene. “Darling Daddy, please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“So sorry, Dearest Mommy.” He took a few cautious steps towards her, his head slightly lowered and obviously ashamed with his earlier lack of response. “You were so caught up with your book that poor little Daughter and I weren’t sure exactly which of us you were speaking to.”

Mommy let out a laugh that said she wasn’t amused. “Silly man, I would only be speaking to you, now wouldn’t I?” She turned her eyes back down to her book. “I don’t think just regular dirt would have the desired effects. Besides the dirt we live on is mixed with clay. It would probably just ball up and sit in her stomach and nothing would ever come out at all. Then where would we be? Daughter with too full a tummy and Mommy without anything to show for my years of hard work?”

Daddy walked back into the kitchen over to me. He wrapped his large, fur-lined arms around me and said, “I also imagine that clay sitting in her poor tummy would be a bit dangerous, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, that too.” Mommy mumbled. She flipped the page and, without even the slightest glance upward, called out to me, “Daughter, you’re not supposed to be in the kitchen, are you? Isn’t that Daddy’s work place?”

“Oh, yes ma’am it is, you’re absolutely right.” I slipped out of Daddy’s bear-hug and quickly grabbed a broom which had been leaning lazily in a corner and began sweeping the ceramic kitchen floor which was designed to imitate marble. “I was just cleaning up in here too, ma’am. Honest. I know Daddy usually only works in here, but I saw he was busy making your cookies and I just thought you would like it if this floor were…”

Again, she didn’t look at me. “Yes, child, I get it. Please, don’t talk too much, Mommy is trying to read.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, ma’am.” And I continued on with the fallacy I had created for myself, sweeping up invisible dust which Daddy had undoubtedly cleaned just a few minutes before starting the baking. He slipped me another cookie as I swept.

“I wonder what would happen if we used something else. Something still natural, but not dirt. I know!” For the first time that I could remember, Mommy stepped into the kitchen. I shoved the remaining two-thirds of the cookies into my mouth and let it rest on my tongue, the cinnamon and sugar melting, sweetening my entire mouth. She searched through the oak cabinets, opening door after door before finally inquiring, “Daddy Dear, where do we keep the bowls in here?” Daddy reached into the cabinet closest to Mommy’s head and presented her with one of the white bowls from the set. It sparkled brightly from the washing I had given them earlier and mused that, perhaps, Mommy would notice the nice job I did on them. Instead, she ran downstairs into the basement and, after a few minutes of waiting, she came back into the kitchen, the bowl filled with some black powder. “It’s coal dust.” She explained, “From the bottom of the charcoal bag. This is bound to make something better than just lousy old dirt.”

She tore the broom from my hand and I quickly choked down the rest of the soggy cookie. She set the bowl in my hands. “Make Mommy proud,” she told me.

Daddy nervously handed me a spoon. “Do you think that’s alright for her to eat?” He asked Mommy.

“She’s eaten fast food before. There’s no difference. Go on, girl, eat up.” She set the spoon in the bowl for me and Daddy patted my head.

The powder sifted in the bowl every time I exhaled. The blackness shined slightly, like a raven’s wing, making it only a little more inviting. I took one heaping mouthful and resisted the urge to spit it out. It tasted like hickory-flavored sidewalk chalk and was gritty against my teeth. I tried to chew, but decided against it when I felt bits collecting in my molars. I quickly swallowed spoonful after spoonful until the dust churned together in my tummy. It mixed and churned with my stomach juices and bits of sugary cookie and I felt the dust clump together. I could feel soft clicking in my stomach, as if more than one clump had formed and they were rubbing against each other, sending me a Morse code message through my insides, and the message finally said they were ready to come out. I ran for the bathroom, hearing Mommy and Daddy’s footsteps behind me.

“No! Not the toilet!” Mommy’s shrill voice rang throughout the house. “Daddy, grab a bucket and line it with a plastic bag, now.”

I sat next to the toilet, pressing my face against the icy porcelain hoping it would sooth the pain forming within me, but it failed. Daddy handed Mommy the bucket which she placed in front of me on the light tan bathroom rug. “Here.” She said. “Try not to miss.”

The clicking substances in my stomach worked their way upward as I dry heaved into the bucket. My mouth produced an unfathomable amount of saliva, which mixed with the specks of coal-dust still lingering in my mouth and thickened, oozing across my lips like and undesirable mud-pie. Whatever they were, the clicking items were solid and grainy; they rolled up into my throat, pressing the soft tissues of my neck outward. Mommy’s eyes bulged from her skull as she watched the lumps protrude from my neck, knowing that I made something good for her.

“Oh, sweety!” She cooed. “You’re such a good little girl! It looks like you’ve made me some nice, big gems!” Spit them out, spit them out.”

“Do you think I should get her some Pepto-Bismol?” Daddy’s head popped around the corner of the door into the bathroom. “Daughter, would you like some Pepto? Or Ginger Ale, perhaps?”

“Please, Daddy Sweetheart,” Mommy hissed, the permanent stains of long-gone red lipstick still visible in the creases of her lips, “she’s not sick, she’s making gems for Mommy.”

I tried to spit them out, but the lumps filled my throat and, lodged within whatever crevices they found, refused to move. My black spit still snaked down my chin as I bent my neck downward, attempting, unsuccessfully, to force them out. Mommy reached over and cupped my neck in her hands, pushing the lumps upward, saving me from asphyxiation. They rolled along and collided together in my throat, attempting to rush out with the force of her hands. The objects tumbled out of my gaping mouth, scraping against my teeth and tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste within.

If they were gemstones, they weren’t like the ones in the pictures of Mommy’s books. They were thick and black and sounded almost hollow when they all clicked together. They didn’t look fragile at all either; I imagined they’d be large geodes of multicolored glass, but that wasn’t what I spit up. I went to spit a black wad of spit into the trash with the lumps, but Mommy quickly pulled it away, so I swallowed. It slithered down my throat, the black grain mixed within burning the inner lining of the sore muscles of my neck.

Mommy took a moment to examine what I had given her, twisting the basket from side to side, as if to make sure she wasn’t missing something hidden. Her face looked like it had suddenly grown heavy, as if gravity were pushing too much on her skull. Her thin lips formed a half-moon pointing towards the pale granite-designed linoleum floor, her delicate crows-feet crinkled against her eyes like tissue paper. Even what few laugh lines she had appeared distraught.

“These aren’t gems.” She glared at me, her small blue eyes accusing me of not really being her daughter, of not trying hard enough to be the princess she knew she had given birth to. Her eyes searched my face, locating all of the soft features, the curvy lips, the long lashes she no longer had because she had passed them on to me. She had given me this chance to pay her back for all that she had given me. My stomach gurgled sourly and every inch of muscle from my ribs up into my throat was tired and weak, but nothing pained me more than her eyes telling me that I had failed her. “This is just coal.” She set the trash back down in front of me and walked out of the bathroom.

The thin film of mucous covering the coal masked their darkness with a slight shimmer which, even in the yellow-tinted bathroom light, made them look like they could have been gemstones. Daddy walked into the bathroom and sat down with me, his apron speckled with stains which I could never wash out. “What have we got here?” He picked up the trash and examined the contents. “So, this is what your tummy made?”

I opened my mouth to speak. My throat, badly scratched and coated with grainy mucous, made my voice come out in a raspy croak: “Yup, that’s all that came out.”

“What luck!” The bag Mommy took the coal dust from was empty. What do you say we use these to fire up the grill and we have a barbecue feast for dinner?”

I suddenly no longer cared about the pain in my little stomach or neck. My dust-and-spittle-covered lips spread into a smile and I nodded. “That sounds wonderful, Daddy.” He took my hand and led me outside, where he lined the grill with the charcoal and lit it. The flames danced around our food, changing colors depending on the food Daddy placed along the metal grate: a pink flame tangoed along my chicken; red flames salsaed on his pork chop; blue flames waltzed up and down the ears of corn. The grill was an entertaining arena of magic, but Mommy refused to come down to see it.

The next day, Mommy had me brush out all of the cats while Daddy was outside tending to his rose bushes in front of the house. She had fourteen cats in all, and Mommy didn’t want any one of them to feel more loved than another, so she had me line them up in the living room, and, one by one, I was to brush them all for ten minutes each. Afterwards, Mommy had me set them in her lap so she could pet them to ensure I had done a thorough job.

Mommy sat cross-legged on the couch, a story book in one hand while the other stroked whichever cat I had most recently placed in her lap. I was working on brushing out her orange tabby when she called out, “Daddy, dear, could you bring me an apple?”

“He’s in the garden, ma’am.” I croaked; my throat was still sore from the previous day’s coal episode.

“Oh, well, you can get one for me, Daughter. The cats can wait. Pick up the hair you brushed out and throw it away first.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I took up the ball of hair and began walking towards the kitchen.

“And make sure you wash your hands before touching my apple. And thoroughly wash the apple, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I handed her a cleaned and shining apple and sat down on the floor, looking up at her as if she were a stature of a massive idol.

“Perhaps coal dust was a little too harsh, do you think?”

“Perhaps so, ma’am,”

“Indeed. You see, this story has a test that says a princess’s skin is so delicate it can feel peas underneath lots of mattresses. I think that’s what may have gone wrong. Your inside skin must have been too delicate for the coal dust so it produced nothing.”

“But I made coal.”

“Oh yes, right. What did you and Daddy do with the coal?”

“Barbecued.”

“So now they’re just ash. I wonder if the ash would do anything. It’s lighter than the coal dust so it shouldn’t hurt, I imagine.” She tossed the tabby aside and went into the kitchen. Now knowing where the dishes were, she reached into the cabinet and brought down another bowl. She walked downstairs and when she came back this time, the bowl was full of ash. She set the bowl down next to me on the coffee table and took the apple. “Here, we’ll eat together. Go on and make Mommy proud.” It was the first time that I could remember that Mommy had willingly wanted to sit next to me and spend time with me like this.

The ash powder formed black and white streaks in the bowl. It could have been the flour Daddy used to make the snickerdoodles if the flour had a disease. I ate all of the ash in the bowl. Again, there was a clicking sound in my tummy, and again, the clicking items needed to come out.

There was more this time, more of whatever my stomach had created this time around. I felt them piling up in my stomach, weighing it down. I felt my tummy bloat, as if I had eaten too much, but there wasn’t the usual feeling of satiation within me. My jeans, which were two sizes too big since Mommy gave me all of her old clothes whenever she bought new clothes for herself, grew tighter around my abdomen. I peeled my shirt away from my stomach to investigate the cause of this and there, where there was usually a pale, hollow stomach with a concave belly button, was a mass of flesh jutting out past the waistline of the jeans. I had seen pictures of Mommy’s tummy while she was pregnant with me, pictures she had hidden in her drawers and I had stumbled upon while putting away her cleaned and folded laundry, and it jutted out much the same way. But my tummy wasn’t round like Mommy’s was. Whatever grew in my womb was made of various geometric shapes and angles which poked and prodded against my skin. I pushed against my stomach, forcing them all to tear through my throat, ripping and scratching against the lining the entire way up. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth before I released the objects into the bucket.

Mommy scooped a handful of the items out of the bucket. “Just sandstone, nothing important.” She dumped the rocks back into the trash can and walked away, back to the couch and her book with the princess who wouldn’t fail her. I sat there, staring at the pile of useless sediment I wretched up. My throat burned with every swallow I took, so I tried to let the saliva sit in my mouth and build up to its maximum capacity before I choked it down past a knot that was trying to grow amongst the damage. The rocks were slimy and yellow, speckled by liquid red polka-dots which slid around along the mucus. I tried to envision them being something more than just the useless rocks that a child would try to shove into his tiny mouth while unsupervised, but they just sat there, the mucus rippling across them with each sigh I took.

I heard the front door shut and thought that Daddy must have finished his task in the garden. I heard him ask Mommy where I was and, when she gave the truthful reply, he moaned, “Dearest Mommy, you didn’t make her eat coal dust again, did you?” She confirmed that she didn’t, which was true enough. I hardly realized that he had come into the bathroom until he stuck his head by mine to see my newly formed treasures. “This is what your tummy made this time?” I nodded, the tips of my long blonde hair brushing against the sides of the bucket. “Well this is just wonderful, Daughter! I actually needed something to line the rose bushes with, and these will compliment them perfectly.” He picked the rocks out of the bucket and folded them carefully into his apron, this one the bright orange one he wore while working in the yard that Mommy once told him didn’t flatter his olive skin and black hair; I thought it made him look like a superhero. He took my hand and together we walked outside to his rose garden.

Daddy set the rocks down in a row just in front of the roses that he had planted last summer for Mommy because she said they were her favorite. His roses were sad and small, all tilting their heads downward in shame even though Daddy had spent the entire day trying so hard to make them happy. When the last rock was set, Daddy and I stood back to admire the job he had done. The rocks began to sink down into the soil, burrowing deeper and deeper until only the tops of each rock appeared at the surface. We watched as the stems of each rose extended upward, and each bud swelled twice its size. The sound of childish giggling filled the air like a baby being tickled. After a moment of looking around trying to see if any children had wandered down our street, Daddy and I realized that the laughter was coming from the roses. His roses were no longer sad, and all it took was some tummy-rocks. The giggling increased as each rose grew bigger and redder, nearly consuming the window they so recently were sulking beneath. Mommy opened the window and, pushing her round face through the rose bush without getting stuck by a single thorn, she told Daddy and me that there was too much racket and she couldn’t focus on her stories. The roses quieted down, but Daddy and I could tell they were still smiling.

The next day, while Mommy read a new story, I carefully cleaned all of the mirrors which lined the hallway. I balanced myself on a step ladder, since they were all too far out of my reach, but just high enough for Mommy to examine her face for signs of prettiness. I never understood why. Daddy stood in the kitchen, decorating one of the dozens of cakes he had baked throughout the day. I leaned back and balanced myself on the yellowed wall-papered wall to watch Daddy. I thought I saw him working on a small chocolate one and I knew that one was just for me, since Mommy hated chocolate and would only let him make vanilla for her.

“The ash must have been too literal, I guess,” Mommy said, looking over her book and plucking a cherry out of the bowl I had set in front of her earlier. I caught her glance in the mirror I was cleaning, her reflection a blurred, far away version of mine only with smaller eyes and thinner lips. And my hair was naturally blonde. “I gave you charcoal dust before,” her reflection continued, “so the charcoal ash obviously wouldn’t have done anything. Don’t you agree, Daughter?” My throat being too sore to speak, I nodded my agreement. “That’s what I thought. This little princess kissed a frog and got a husband. We need to think outside of the box!” I nodded again and finished cleaning the mirror.

“Dearest, don’t you think we should perhaps give Daughter a break? She’s tried so hard these past two — ”

“She’s young, her little tummy can handle it. Daughter, what did you and Daddy do with the rocks?”

“Well, we –“ Daddy started.

“I’m sorry.” Mommy snipped. “I was talking to Daughter. Was there another way I could have been more specific for you?” Daddy appeared like he had an answer to her question, but his bushy mustache twitched from side to side before it decided not to say anything.

Mommy turned back to me, her pointy eyebrows raised causing repetitious lines to travel towards her hair line, waiting for a response. I opened my mouth and attempted to speak, but I only felt gravely remains of rock and coal stirring against my throat, no words emerging. Knowing she wanted an answer, I pointed outside.

She went outside and pulled the rocks up from the ground. I heard the roses outside wimper some as she came rushing inside, dirty, bloodied rocks in her hands. She put them into the large blender which took up an immense amount of space on the imitation granite counter-top. She blended the sandstone so fine that it just became yellow-tinted dust; the red specks were erased from all of the blending. She cut a thick slice of the chocolate cake Daddy made for me, grimacing at its deep brown sponginess, and poured the dust right on top, completely covering the cake. She handed me the plate of chocolate-and-powder cake.

“Here, this should help it go down a little easier.” I looked down at the plate. Even though I knew there was cake hidden somewhere underneath the pile of rock-dust, I was still too afraid to eat. “Go on,” Mommy coaxed. “Daddy made that nice chocolate cake just for you. And you want to make Mommy proud, don’t you?”

“This will be the last time, right Darling Mommy?” Daddy called out from the kitchen.

“Yes, yes,” Mommy waved her hand behind her back at Daddy. “Of course this will be the last time, because Daughter will make me something good this time, I’m sure.”

I noticed my hands along the edges of the white plate. Normally the color of a porcelain doll, my hands today looked more like the yellow dust on the plate. My skin’s strange and sudden change in complexion frightened me and I didn’t want to look at them any longer. To take my mind off of them, I instinctively began devouring the items on the plate.

This time, only one object formed in my stomach. It wasn’t too large, but it was sharp and jagged and tore my insides through its entire journey upward. I spit it up and what seemed like my bodies entire supply of blood poured into the bucket with a heavy sounding thud; the object had poured out with it. Mommy scooped her hand through the blood and washed the object off in the sink.

“An oyster!” She struggled to pry it open and when the two halves refused to part, she sighed. “This is all I get? An oyster that won’t open?” Daddy walked into the bathroom and sat down next to me, wiping the drips of blood off my lips with a powder blue apron. Mommy threw the oyster on the floor and it landed next to Daddy. I picked the prickly oyster up into both of my sickened hands, since it was too large and heavy for me to hold with just one. My throat, torn and useless, forbid me from speaking to her, but I made this oyster just for her, because she wanted something from me, and for a moment she was finally excited with what I had given her. I wanted her to have it, to be happy with the product again, but she wouldn’t take it. I pantomimed tearing it open and finding something amazing inside.

“I think she’s trying to tell you that there might be a pearl inside, Mommy Dear.” Daddy said. I nodded in agreement.

“What good is a damn pearl if I can’t get to it?” She sat on the edge of the toilet, her head in her hands, but no tears formed. A heavy sigh escaped from my mouth, making a large blood-bubble in my mouth. It popped and splattered against my face, and Daddy wiped my face clean again. She and I both now knew that, despite her giving me her beauty, she hadn’t given birth to a princess after all.

Defeated, I set the large oyster in Daddy’s hands. I wanted to tell Daddy that he could have the oyster, that I knew he would do something wonderful with it. Instead, I coughed quietly, spraying blood from my throat up against my lips again. In Daddy’s bear-sized hand, the fleshy membrane keeping the two halves of the oyster fused together began to split. It separated little by little, allowing the space between the two halves to grow as it went, until they sprung apart so quickly the oyster nearly fell out of Daddy’s hand.

Daddy and I peered into the shell as if it would begin singing perfectly pitched hymns at any moment. It never did, but that didn’t take away from our awe. The top half of the shell was covered in shiny pastel streaks of blues and purples and greens, as if someone had peeled a large oil rainbow off of the highway after a rainstorm and attached it to the inside of my creation. All of the colors switched places the more Daddy moved his hand as if different rainbows fought for their chance to show their beauty to us. On the lower half of the shell, in the center of the oyster’s pink pillow tongue, rested a seamless, round pearl the size of Daddy’s thumbnail. I saw my face in it; even in the pearl’s snowy white reflection, my face still appeared too yellow, too worn, and I looked away. Before Daddy could comment on what I had made, Mommy snatched the pearl from the oyster’s mouth and held it tightly in her hand, her thick arms rippling like a fleshy flag during a windstorm from her surprisingly fast movements.

She squealed like a cat in heat as she wrapped her bony fingers around the pearl. “Good, sweet Daughter! You made me a pearl! You’re such a good little…” Before she could finish her sentence, her face dropped, and shadows filled the spaces which had once been light. Her mouth held its gaping expression, but she no longer spoke. She lowered her head and looked into her hands instead. She made a strange sound then, like an animal on the road, hit and left to die.

She put her hands out to show us what caused her such pain. The pearl was no longer round and solid. Instead, it had somehow turned into a small pile of white sand in her hands, as if she loved it too much and it disintegrated. It was sparkling and grainy like salt, only it smelled like the ocean. Mommy poured the sand into Daddy’s free hand. Astonished and hurt, Mommy walked out of the bathroom and we heard her body thump down on the couch.

Daddy examined the powder in his hand, finally lifting the pile to his tongue which stuck out just under his mustache. I could hear the powder pop like rock candy as he pulled his tongue into his mouth. “Hmm,” he pursed his thick lips together, pushing his cheerful cheeks towards the back of his head, as if the powder confused him slightly. “That’s odd, it tastes like sugar.” Forgetting the blood piling up in my mouth, I opened my mouth instinctively to reply and everything poured out onto my shirt. I felt myself wanting to cry. “No need for tears, Daughter. Here,” again, he wiped my face clean, his apron now appearing like a murder scene from a movie, “all better. Say, this should be just enough sugar to make some small cookies for you. Would you like that?” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if I would eat the cookies Daddy made.

I watched him from the kitchen countertop as he mixed the flower and sugar and all sorts on nice things to make my cookies. Mommy, tucked away as much as possible in the elbow of the sectional, sat petting the few cats which crowded around her, a book somewhere in the folds of her lap. She didn’t say a word as Daddy hoisted me, with my now reddened shirt, onto the counter; he didn’t ask for her permission to do so, either.

When Daddy began flattening the dough into a single round cookie, I took a knife from the cutting board and handed it to him, pantomiming that he could cut the circle in half. “You don’t want the whole thing, Daughter?” I shook my head, then pointed to myself and pointed into the living room towards Mommy. “You’re too sweet,” Daddy said, taking my chin momentarily in his hand before cutting the cookie, and baked the two halves.

When they were finished, I took one of the halves and immediately brought it over to Mommy. She stared at me a moment before taking it, studying my face, my eyes, finally realizing that the beauty she had given me would be mine forever, never to return to her, and I couldn’t possibly be her princess. She snatched the cookie from my hand and put the entire thing in her mouth and swallowed it whole, just to go back to her book.

I took tiny bites out of my cookie, trying to enjoy it despite the burning in my throat. Luckily, it soaked up enough blood and saliva that I could just swallow the soggy bits. The softened cookie fizzed as it went down my mouth, the way the powder did on Daddy’s tongue, and managed to slide smoothly down my throat past the abused tissue lining. It felt strangely cool, like ice, but comforting, like when snowflakes kiss your nose. The pain was gone, and I could speak. I rinsed my mouth out in the kitchen sink and said turned to Daddy. “Daddy, thank you. It’s gone, the pearl dust took all the hurt away!”

He wrapped his arms around me just before we heard a horrifying sound coming from the living room. There was a clattering sound amidst a painful, and all too familiar, sound, like when I was forcing the objects out of my tummy. We went into the living room to see Mommy doubled over on the living room floor, shards of multicolored glass continuously flowing from her bleeding mouth.