A GIFT

Long ago, when a princess was born, queens would summon fairies to bless the child. But by this time, the fairies had vanished, and one queen took it upon herself to give the gifts in their place.

Under a silver moon, she dressed her newborn in a white gown and carried her deep into the forest, along a mossy path winding between the trees. The wind moved through the pines, carrying the hush of something sacred about to unfold.  On and on she walked until she reached a quiet glen. There, on a bed of pine needles, she laid the baby and lit a single candle, its small flame trembling in the night air.

With her head bowed, she spoke her wishes, each word shaped with care:

“My daughter, may you have a small voice. For if no one hears you, they will never criticize what you say.

May you never be special in any way. For if no one desires what you have, they will never envy you.

And may you have only modest dreams. For if you never reach for the stars, you will never know the pain of falling.”

When she finished, the queen bent over the child and kissed her gently on the forehead. She looked at her sleeping daughter, peaceful and unaware, and felt satisfied.

Then she blew out the candle.

Now, she was certain her child would be safe.