The sunrises on a day when most people are honoring their fathers, their grandfathers, their great-grandfathers, whether they are still here to honor or honor their legacy.When this day holds so much emotion, so much anger, confusion, grief, and longing. She wanders the forest in a daze, walks through the markets lost and unfocused. She watches little princesses float about, watches them run and jump into their father’s arms. She turns and watches bare feet on large boots, swaying back and forth to a sweet melody. She gazes through windows and watches the feasts, several generations gathered around a large table. She watches with longing and grief, choking down her sorrow. She wanders alone down an empty street, for she has no lap to crawl into, no large arms to run and jump into, no feast to prepare, no large boots to dance on with her bare feet. For she learned long ago that she was no princess.

She once believed she was a princess, once believed that she was safe and wanted. Once long ago, in an age of bare feet, crown and fairy skrits. When the world was bright, and life felt simple. Once long ago, when she lived to bring joy to all she met, when the world felt big and full of adventure. She lived in a castle with purple walls and a pink canopy above her bed. Happily, she reigned over her subjects; she treated all with care and love, from the stuffed horse to the dolls on their wooden bench. Once upon a time, there was a princess who believed in the power of love and knew in her heart that if she just loved someone hard enough, then she could save them from any curse. But soon she would learn how very wrong she was. For there was a darkness in this princess’s kingdom, growing bigger with each passing year. Someone had let evil into her lands, and she did not know it yet, but there was someone in her land, her very castle, her home, who would sacrifice her love to that darkness. Who would choose the darkness over her, who would let pain and sorrow into her land, and no matter how hard she loved, how much she cried and pleaded, or how much she tried, it would not be enough to save him.

She knew something had changed within him; she could not remember the exact moment when the kindness left his eyes, when his love seemed to diminish, and anger filled his eyes. No longer did he want her to dance and twirl, no longer did he wish to play in the garden with her, no longer did he want to read her stories. She could not define the exact moment, but she remembered the firsts. The first time she raced into his arms, giving him a hero’s welcome, and he pushed her off and away. The first time she caught him in a lie, the first time he didn’t come in to kiss her before he left in the early hours of the day. Slowly, things changed; she went from being a treasured gift to a burden, someone he sighed and grumbled about spending time with. Something he now looked on with contempt in his eyes, as if she were something bad. By the time she reached the age of a young lady, he had completely withdrawn from her. Not only had he become unpredictable, his moods ever changing, his rules and standards changing with the wind. She would try to please him, try to do what he asked, but it was never enough; she always seemed to fall short somehow. His words grew harsh and cold, and slowly he began to tear down her self-esteem. She thought she had gone mad when visiting other kingdoms or out in the village streets. He was kind and happy, everyone in the community loved him, and he would laugh and tease. In public, he would show her off, hold her hand, speak of what an accomplished young lady she was, then they would get home, and his mood would change. She would stand in the doorway, still in her best gown, bewildered at the change that had taken place. Was this all a cruel game? She could have sworn there was joy in his eyes when she lost her temper, finally pushed to her limit, and could have sworn there was a gleam of victory in his eyes as the tears poured down her face. Then her mind would go foggy, her memories blurry, and he would tell her that things she remembered never happened, but she knew they did. Or did they? Because he father, her king, her hero, he wouldn’t lie to her, would he? This was all in her head; she was going mad, and her mind was playing tricks on her. She knew there was something wrong, something dark growing in her kingdom. The villagers had started acting strangely, and her friends had grown avoidant. Whispers reached her ears, but only half thoughts or partial words. She sensed something evil and dark. Nothing made sense anymore. At night, she was plagued with dreams of dark, scary creatures, of things that followed her, of cages and dungeons, and that look of joy in her father’s eyes when she cried. She feared she had truly gone mad now, as she walked alone through her village, a husk of that little princess. She felt drained, like something was sucking all the light and life out of her; she was weary in her bones. She had no idea the worst was yet to come.

The whispers in the village had grown louder, and people started turning away when they saw her coming. She couldn’t understand why; what had she done? Did her father tell them all the bad things she believed she had done? Was this her punishment? She needed to work harder to be better and to be good. But she had the sense she was missing something; she could feel a storm brewing. There was the taste of fear in the air, as if everyone was holding their breath. There was a dark new danger in the land that she could not name. Anxiety and heaviness set in over the villagers.

One night, a public announcement, a proclamation that shattered her whole world.  Her knees hit the cold stone floor, a silent scream contorting her face. She was dying, she could feel it, her heart breaking apart, shattering into tiny pieces. She could feel it, the ringing in her head, the blurred vision, her lungs collapsing. A true nature revealed. She hadn’t known; she should have known; she should have stopped him; she should have protected the innocent. She curled into a ball on the cold stone floor, tears running down her face. She never thought he would go this far, thought he only treated her that way because she was bad, because she had done something to anger him. She had thought she was a princess, but tonight she found out the truth as it was announced to the whole kingdom. She was no princess; she was the daughter of the villain. A villain who had hurt innocence, who had terrorized her friends, the darkness growing in her world had been him. He had sold his soul to that darkness; he had embraced it fully.

What does the daughter of a villain do on a holiday meant to honor fathers? What does she do with her day with no feast to prepare, no cheek to kiss, no gifts to buy? Should she just try to sleep and hide from the confusion of this day? Should she cry and weep for that little princess who tried so hard to be whatever he wanted? How is it possible to feel both relief and grief around someone’s death? How does she  mourn the villain that terrorized her village, hurt the ones she loves, and was the villain in her story? The villain she escaped from, the one she then turned on and helped lock away. Several of her favorite books have a daughter who finds out her long-lost father is the villain, who often wants her dead, and while I feel the pain of that rejection and betrayl, she never knew him. What happens to the girl whose father raised her, was nice sometimes, and mean others. Brought her flowers one day, then verbally attacked her the next? She worked to keep a roof over her head, but never wanted to be with her. What happens to her? What does the daughter of the villain do?

How is she supposed to rationalize missing her daddy with the fact that he was also the villain in her story? Where do both anger and longing fit together? How many different emotions can one body hold? With the memories of leaving him, when she learned of his crimes and his evil deeds, when she realized the father she knew and loved was gone. The flashbacks of how she took her sword and, with a guttural scream, dealt the blow to defeat him, then how her heart fell and broke into a million pieces. It’s a terrible curse to mourn someone who has not died, to grieve a living life, no matter how evil that life may be. For inside that warrior with a sword was a little girl, who just wanted her daddy back, who cried and cried. And yet the villain who broke her heart over and over again, leaving scars that still show today.

Where does she go on this day? Does she go out into the community? To watch the good, strong heroes parade their princesses around? To watch princesses curl up in their powerful protector’s lap while they feast? To the mourning daughters laying flowers on a grave to honor their hero? To the ones who’ve only ever known cruelty and pain from the one who should have treasured them most? To the princess, now a mother, helping their own little princess prepare a feast? Some would tell her to just focus her energy on her heavenly Father, on her creator and true king. While worship and honor help, there is no warm lap to crawl into, no  hand to spin and twirl her pretty dress. It doesn’t explain to her aching heart why her father would choose the darkness and evil over her. It doesn’t help her process that her love wasn’t enough to save him. For her heart knows she isn’t supposed to have to work to know her worth, her value, or beauty. She knows that the High King appointed someone who was supposed to protect, cherish, and care for her, but instead chose to harm her. Maybe some years she serves so that other families can worship and feast together. Maybe some years she stays in and withdraws some. Maybe there are no supposed to’s or should’s, maybe the only “should” is to take each year one at a time. To let herself be free after so many years of bondage and performance. To care for herself as the father and grandfather never did. To feast alone with just her High King. To walk in nature and rest finally. For both the villain and her father are dead, one and the same, yet two different men. And so the daughter of the villain spends another day alone, writing this story.