The Story Of Cinderella

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I know that most of you know the story of my step-sister, Ella. Not Cinderella. Cinderella is the nickname that my sister and I gave to her. Now that I think about it, Cinderella sounds pretty, unless you know what the name really meant.
In the stories, no matter what variation you read, there’s the snobby sister, a cruel stepmother, and the poor, helpless, girl who gets to marry the prince of her dreams.
I’m not the bossy and mean sister the stories portrayed me as.
You are going to see my side of the story. My story.
The name’s Sapphire, by the way.

I remember the time when I, along with my twin sister Evelyn, had to move into the countryside where our mom’s husband lived. It was a huge mansion, with a large, cultivated garden in the backyard. Many flowers were there, each grouped according to their type, the flowers were ordered from the brightest red to the murkiest purple. A fountain of an angel was placed right in the middle. On the far left, was a hazel tree; there were words inscribed in it, but I didn’t bother to read them.
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My sister refused to enter; she said that she didn’t want to get mud on her shoes and her dress; she stood there on the porch, admiring the view.
Inside the house, there was a living room the size of a small house. There were leather reclining sofas around the fireplace and images of Cinderella with her dad and mom placed on the top shelf. Below the pictures there were books, large and small in ascending
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