Where Does the Fairy Tale Go? (Hope in the Disappointment)

The Intangibles

May 13

Photo by Jill Wellington from Pexels — Photo by **Jill Wellington** from **Pexels**

He was the cutest boy I had ever seen. Three and a half feet tall. Baby brown eyes. He lived right across the playground and over the chain-link fence. Brett Elmblad … the name forever embedded in the recesses of my mind.

We were five when he chose me – me – to be his wife. We were playing house on our street. My best friend Kim was elected to be the child—the baby. Brett and I were married without much ceremony, and we moved into our tree house home. Just climbed right in and started our new life together. It was divine. Everything I had hoped for in a marriage. When he looked into my eyes, I knew I belonged to him forever.

Sadly, we were divorced a few months later when our family moved two towns over. No papers to sign. Not even a goodbye. I had lost him, but it wasn’t the end. One day he would find me, and that day would be glorious.

My mom had done some shopping while we settled into our new home. She bought me clothes, including a lime green, frilled nightgown. Fancy, like a princess would wear. I knew it was the one. The very night I wore my brand new lacy green princess pajamas would be the very night my prince would come for me. He would find me, even two towns away. I kept the nightgown folded neatly, tags still on, and tucked it into my top drawer, waiting for the perfect evening. I would know the time when it came.

And I did. It happened. It was a clear, winter evening. The stars hung low and bright. Magical. It was the night. I removed the tag and dressed in my frilly nightgown. The lacy hem reached the floor. I brushed out my long hair and sat on my stairs in range of the front door. I felt every bit the princess and knew my prince would come that night.

One hour passed, my focus glued to the door. To the tiny windows on either side. To the expectant trill of the doorbell. Two hours. My mother told me to go to bed. But how could I sleep on this fated night. I would miss his arrival for sure.

Three hours pushed the limits of any six-year-old, and I returned to my room and changed my pajamas. I folded the gown neatly and stuffed it in my top drawer. I crawled into bed in my worn cotton run-of-the-mill pajamas and pulled the covers way up.

In that moment, hinged between reality and fairy tale, I understood the truth . . . I had picked the wrong night.

You see, when it doesn’t turn out the way we thought it should, we have the chance to pivot, not to give up. Because so many times the dream doesn’t look exactly like we thought it would. The prince doesn’t come … quite yet. The nightgown, though pretty, didn’t hold the power we gave it. But the dream is not gone because of these things. That hope rising up within us … it remains. And, believe it or not, we have all we need to move forward despite the setback. Because it isn’t really a setback at all. It’s a chance to choose another way . . . another path to get to the dream.