by Sharon Cohen

Created on: June 02, 2008

The story is painful and poignant.
The memories bitter then sweet.
Until all that is perfect in living
Outweighed the loss and defeat.

I was five years old, maybe six, running down the street with my big brother, Rick, who was two years older than me. I'm not sure where my little sister was. Kelly was only two or three at the time so she was probably indoors with our new stepmother.

My brother reached the oncoming car first. It had stopped in the middle of the road and he was standing beside the driver's window, ashen white, with tears in his eyes.

He turned and yelled "Shari! Hurry up!"

I arrived panting and unable to speak. My mother sat there behind the wheel. All I heard was a choked and shaky "What?"

For the first time I witnessed heart-wrenching emotions that devastate the face but are never spoken.

Her hands were folded in her lap and her arms were limp. She took a deep breath and she held it.

"I'm sorry," Rick was saying. "We have to! They're making us."

Then he told our mother how we were being forced to call her "Pat" and our new stepmother would have the title "Mom".

From that moment, events and memories of the years that followed were shadowed and shrouded in darkness. I learned to put the pain of days far away in the recesses of my mind, locked securely behind impenetrable doors.

Mine became a Cinderella story with not one but three stepchildren trying to learn the new rules of life. We learned by shame and punishment to do chores, eat with table manners, sit up straight and do as we were told until the simple delights of childhood faded away.

Such was our life until the summer.

We all piled into the Volkswagen and headed north into Oregon. Eventually, we pulled in front of a modest home, piled out of the car and went into the most enchanting home I'd ever seen.

It was a modest home, one level, with a living-dining room, three bedrooms, a kitchen and one bath. Just beyond the house, across the footbridge that spanned the creek was the Community Presbyterian Church.

The house was packed with stuff from wall to wall, cupboard to pantry to shed out back. This humble home was to become my castle and I became a princess. Our parents let us stay there for much of summer break.

From the template of the summer, I determined the kind of grandma I would be. You see, this Grandma baked pies and got dirty with us kids. Her kitchen had those pull down bins where the flour was stored and she'd toss up a scoop full on the counter. Presto! Like passing her magic wand over a dusty

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