by Kristina May My husband keeps his dead wife’s room the way it was, minus the half-eaten apple. Now gilt, immortalized in gold; forever an unfinished snack atop the vanity. Musty gowns adorn her closets. But the mirror gleams dust-free. I come here on my worst days. Wondering if it really was smart to marry the king if he never pays attention to me. Hiding from my insufferable stepdaughter. “Mirror, mirror,” I whisper, despondent. “Snow White is fairest of all,” it tells me. I will cut her heart out.

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