Cinderella - European

My days were spent by the hearth, where the warm cinders left smudges on my cheeks, but my dreams were always filled with starlight and kindness. My name is Ella, but because of the soot, my stepfamily always called me Cinderella. My story, a tale passed down through countless generations in Europe, is one of hope, a little bit of magic, and a single glass slipper. After my dear father passed away, my stepmother and her two daughters revealed their true, cruel natures. They turned me into a servant in my very own home. I cooked their meals, scrubbed the floors until my hands were raw, and slept on a simple straw mat by the fireplace while they lounged in luxury. “Hurry up, Cinderella. Polish my shoes.” my stepsister Anastasia would demand. Despite their constant taunts, I tried to keep my heart full of light. I found friendship in the small creatures who shared my world—the clever mice in the attic and the cheerful birds in the garden. They were my confidants, and I never lost my belief that one day, my life would change for the better.

One afternoon, a royal messenger with a gleaming trumpet arrived with a proclamation that sent a jolt of excitement through the entire kingdom. The King was holding a magnificent royal ball for his son, the Prince, and every eligible maiden was invited. My stepsisters were ecstatic, chattering endlessly about gowns, jewels, and who would capture the Prince’s attention. They mocked me, of course. “You, go to the ball?” my other stepsister, Drizella, sneered. “In those filthy rags? You would disgrace us.” Heartbroken, I watched them ride away in their carriage, leaving me alone in the garden with only my tears for company. Just then, a shimmering light appeared, and a woman with the kindest eyes I had ever seen stood before me. It was my Fairy Godmother. “There, there, my dear,” she said softly. “You shall go to the ball.” With a flick of her wand, she transformed a plump pumpkin into a golden coach. Can you imagine seeing the mice suddenly become majestic white horses? My tattered dress dissolved into a breathtaking gown that shimmered like captured moonlight, and on my feet, she placed a pair of delicate glass slippers. “But be warned,” she cautioned, “the magic will only last until the stroke of midnight.”

When I arrived at the palace, a hush fell over the grand ballroom. Everyone stared, whispering and wondering about the mysterious princess who had just appeared. The Prince himself seemed captivated. He walked directly to me, bowed, and asked for a dance. The rest of the evening was a blur of music, laughter, and spinning across the polished floor in the Prince's arms. It felt like a beautiful dream I never wanted to wake from. We talked for hours, and I felt as though I had known him my whole life. But as we were laughing, the deep, resonant chime of the grand clock began to strike. One. Two. Three. Midnight. Panic seized me as I remembered my godmother’s warning. “I must go.” I whispered, pulling away. I fled from the ballroom and down the grand marble staircase. In my haste, one of my delicate glass slippers slipped off my foot and was left behind. The Prince, heartbroken by my sudden departure, found the slipper. He held it up and vowed to the entire court that he would search every home in the kingdom to find the girl whose foot it fit, for she was his true love.

When the royal messenger arrived at our home with the glass slipper, my stepsisters could barely contain their greedy excitement. They shoved and pushed, each desperately trying to squeeze her foot into the tiny, delicate shoe, but it was useless. My stepmother, determined that one of her daughters would be queen, tried to hide me away in the attic. But the messenger was firm. “The Prince commanded that every maiden in the kingdom must try on the slipper,” he declared. I was brought downstairs, and as I sat on the small stool, the slipper slid onto my foot as if it were made for me. It was a perfect fit. My stepfamily stared, their mouths wide open in stunned silence. Soon after, I married the Prince, and we ruled with the kindness and compassion I had always held in my heart. My story was first told around firesides across Europe, a spoken tale of hope. It was later written down by authors like Charles Perrault in the 17th century and the Brothers Grimm in the 19th century, ensuring its survival. The myth of Cinderella reminds us that true worth comes not from our clothes or status, but from a kind and courageous heart. It teaches us that even when things seem their darkest, a little bit of hope can spark the most wonderful transformations and create a magic that lasts forever.