True love stories never have endings.
~Richard Bach
Skylar and Kerry lie sprawled across my bed in their pajamas, engrossed in the movie Enchanted, the latest obsession in their three-year-old world. With the evening sunlight of June still filtering through the windows, the twins aren't interested in sleep. "It's eight on the clock, girls. Almost bedtime." They don't move. The ceiling fan twirls above us, fanning our hair and filling the room with a fresh-from-the-bath aroma of baby shampoo. I sit cross-legged with my laptop in front of me, being grilled by the Quicken WillMaker program I just installed. Question number three: Married or Single? I'm stumped.
An animated Susan Sarandon begins snarling on the screen, and Skylar buries her face in the pillow. "Skip the witch, Mommy! I don't like the witch." I lunge for the remote on the nightstand and fast-forward through the scene.
"Okay, she's gone." Remote in hand, I'm a fairy godmother with the power to banish witches, trolls and monsters. I create a world where all is well. Skylar peeks through her fingers to make sure it's safe. With her widow's peak hairline and intense gaze, she has the look of a baby Jack Nicholson.
"Are witches real, Mommy?" Yes, I want to answer, you'll meet some in high school.
"No, sweetie. It's just pretend." She rests her chin in her palms and settles back into the movie.
Like all my childhood friends, I grew up on the same kind of fairy tales, learning early that I would meet my true love and live happily ever after. No future included the possibility of being puzzled when asked "Married or Single?" or raising twin girls alone. I was brought up in the era of Movies of the Week, so I knew that given two hours and enough tenacity, an ordinary woman could overcome any obstacle and find her happy ending. I had the peace of knowing that if my mom needed to crawl through an avalanche or cure a rare disease to save me, she would. And I was sure that I could do the same for someone I loved.
I place the remote back on the nightstand, between the tub of wet wipes and the portrait of me and my husband laughing at our wedding. The twins call the picture "Cinderella-mommy." I'm in my poofy dress, a head shorter than him. My husband's blue eyes―Skylar's eyes―are watching something to the left. "Look this way," I think to the picture. "Look at me." For five years after that day, all I wanted was to make him happy. The four years after that, my goal was simply to keep him alive. In the end, it turned out I couldn't cure cancer, no matter how much I loved him.
"Can I push the button?" Kerry asks, leaning over the computer.
"Sure, bug. Come here."
She crawls into my lap, and I guide her index finger, pressing the buttons to turn off the computer. "Look, you did it!" Kerry smiles and turns her attention back to the TV, her just-washed hair cool and damp against my cheek.
I want our girls to grow up feeling safe, as I did, not with a cynical mother who was powerless to save their father. Kerry reaches back and twirls my hair in her fingers, as she's done since she was a baby. She pulls too hard, and a strand snaps like a rubber band. I wince, but I don't move. When will she realize that if I couldn't save Daddy, I can't possibly protect her and her sister? I can make a witch disappear from a movie, but I can't conquer all the dragons that will come our way.
On the dresser, the twins' clothes are laid out for tomorrow's big Father's Day party at preschool. Just lately, the girls have been catching on that our household is different. The "family board" in class is full of pictures of smiling daddies who are actually alive and spend time with their children. The twins see their friend Jordan's father bring him to school and kiss him goodbye. At first, I thought I'd keep the girls home from the Father's Day event―hit fast-forward and start fresh on Monday. But there was no way to skip the weeks of father-focused crafts and rehearsals all leading up to the big day. Instead, I improvised and called my husband's best friends to fill in. Uncles Moyn, Chris, Ken and Kevin will be there, cameras in hand. It's not the fairy tale, but it's the best Mommy can provide.
On screen, the princess and her one-true-love kiss. The twins jump up and down, holding hands and yelling "Yay! Yay!" as the computer bounces onto my toes.
"Okay, girls, but what does Cinderella do before she marries the Prince?" They squeal our rehearsed response in unison.
"She goes to college!" I tackle them into a heap of giggling toddlers.
"Come lay down with me. Tomorrow's a big day." We watch the movie, the twins on either side of me, all of us cuddled together like puppies. Kerry drifts to sleep, fingers wrapped in my hair. Skylar curls her hand around mine.
"You know what?" I whisper into Skylar's ear. "You'll be surprised. There isn't only one happy ending."
"I don't like the dragon, Mommy." I fast-forward, erasing everything sad that happens before the final song.