The sidewalk was bustling with shoppers as my mother and I hurried to the department store. I craned my neck for a peek at the holiday window display, but at six I was too small to see around the grown-ups with their winter coats and packages.
When at last we reached the store, I stood transfixed. “Look, Mother,” I whispered, pressing my hands against the glass. “Cinderella.”
Before my eyes was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen! She wore a fairy princess gown with layer upon layer of glittering pink tulle. (I knew if I lifted the hem of her skirt I would find glass slippers.) The tiny tiara fastened to her silky golden hair sparkled, reflecting the Christmas lights.
If only she were mine, I dreamed. We’d have tea parties and share secrets and waltz with a handsome prince.
My mother steered me away from the window, explaining that she and my father could not afford such an expensive doll. “But there will be a very special gift under the tree for you on Christmas morning, Madge,” she said. “I promise.”
Later that week I leaned against Mother’s sewing machine, watching the needle flash up and down. “Bet you don’t know what this is!” she teased, holding up the cloth for me to inspect.
“My Christmas doll!” I squealed. It was still in the early stages but I could make out the head, neck and body. I knew she would soon be soft and beautiful. Just like the doll at the store.
“So much for my surprise!” Mother laughed as I twirled around the room, already pretending Cinderella and I were at the ball. It wouldn’t be long now.
My excitement grew with each passing day. Mother continued to work on the doll, and whenever I walked into the room she would hide it under a pillowcase. I could tell by her smile she was pleased with her progress.
On Christmas morning I jumped out of bed and tore down the hall toward the living room. At the doorway, though, I stopped short.
There, underneath the tree, was a doll. Her black yarn hair was pulled back in a tight knot. She had a plain, hand-stitched face. And she wore a simple, boring plaid dress. She wasn’t Cinderella; she looked more like the ugly stepsister.
But I could see Mother watching me, an eager look on her face. I wondered how she must be feeling. Mother worked hard on this doll, I thought. If I don’t like it, she’ll be sad.
Trying to hide my disappointment, I rushed across the room, shouting, “I love her, I love her!” Then I buried my face in the doll’s skirts and silently prayed. God, please help me like her. I stood there for a long moment and heard my mother’s startled intake of breath, followed by a pleased laugh.
For the rest of the day, I made myself carry that homely doll everywhere. I even “fed” her part of my Christmas dinner. “Oh, Madge,” Mom said at one point, “I’m so glad you like her!”
“Her name is Patsy,” I replied. It was no use calling her Cinderella.
In the weeks that followed I kept up my act. Patsy went everywhere with me. When I was sick, she shared my pillow. When I was lonely, Patsy kept me company. A strange thing happened: Soon it wasn’t an act at all.
Even after Cinderella arrived the next Christmas, Patsy remained my closest companion.
Her black yarn hair pulled loose and straggled about her face, but I sewed it back in place. When holes appeared in her cloth body I darned each one. Her plaid dress pulled open at the seams so I made her an elaborate ball gown, complete with a crown. A princess at last!
But to me, Patsy was already perfect. All she had needed to become beautiful was a little girl’s love. Simple, enduring, transforming love. It was a real Cinderella story after all.
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