Once a young girl lived with her grandmother and her younger brother in a cottage in a village. She was so happy at any time, even if she did not play much with other children, and although she knew they had things called mummy and friends, well, you never miss what you never have.

Then I went to school and learned that there was nowhere more fanaticism than in an English village. I was told that her deceased mother was no more than a tortoise I thought was something Grandma had hidden bad enough, but why make her darker than other children in school? Of course, Maddy grew up.

I heard it, suffered it, his campaign, escaped it, moved and pulled out, scars on her soul and then hid deeply. I discovered that Cinderella was not a fictional story, but that, at least in the princes, does not mean perfect perfection, and never lives happily after an unfinished conclusion.

The village did not end with it. He drew her back to die.

Twice!

I want that book.