"Do you know the story of Snow White?" the witch asked. Mother's chocolates gave off a warm comforting scent from inside the chalice; the scent didn't belong in Elaina's house. She reached onto a shelf behind the altar and withdrew an apple, a perfect green apple.

I nodded. Maybe if I stayed quiet and didn't upset her, she'd let me go.

"That story has a witch--a witch queen--but it isn't a story about the witch, is it?" Elaina twirled the apple over the chalice, holding it by the stem. "Nor is it about the apple. No. It is about a girl finding true love."

Elaina dipped the apple into the chalice and blew a kiss downward. Something like black smoke dreamed into the recesses.

Despite my fear, I leaned forward to peer at her work. I believed instantly that she was working magic--true magic, like from a storybook. I was still young enough, then to believe without question.

"Your mother has forgotten what true love means," Elaina said. "She's forgotten her meaning, and in doing so, she insults me. She's become the witch, when she is meant to be the princess. I am the witch. I am the queen." A puff of green smoke rose from the chalice. "Her heart is blind, no? We will help her see again, you and I."

I nodded. Snow White choked on her apple. I knew the story by heart, but Snow White ended up happy. That was the best part about fairy tales, the happily-ever-after. Could I trust this witch to deliver my splintering family a happily-ever-after?

Elaina lifted her arm, pulling out the apple--once green, now a shiny brown--chocolate covering every inch.

"And yet she must learn a lesson," Elaina said. "She thinks to accuse me of infidelity? No. No. I may be a witch but I believe in love. I hate nothing else as much as I despise an unfaithful heart. Faith and trust, those are values to be held close and cherished. It doesn't matter what powers you bind yourself to in life--you must always be true to your promises."

She hissed the last words, but then her face sank into a beatific expression. She pulled a white box from a shelf and placed the apple inside. With a slide of her arthritic hands, she sealed the top with a gold sticker imprinted with the likeness of puckered lips.

"Give this to your mother, girl, say it is a token of my affection for your father. Tell her it comes from one who believes in love."

I took the box and my soul sank under the crippling weight. It seemed to me that this gift would either repair my crumbling home or be the wrecking ball that destroyed it. Was it worth the risk?

I trudged home, at every step I dared myself to throw away the box and the questionable apple within. But in the wind, I heard Elaina. And I was terrified to break my implied promise to her. I'd nodded, and she didn't seem like the type to forgive a broken promise.

My house seemed painted in gray as I approached. I stopped in the yard, incapable of entering. My mother came out, a dish towel in her hand. Her dark hair in a messy bun and wrinkles spreading from her eyes and mouth.

She might not have been beautiful. But I loved her. She was beautiful to me.

I wanted to tell her I loved her, but I wasn't enough.

She was the love of my young life. The one thing I held true, and still I held out the box and delivered Elaina's message.

I hated myself. I hated Elaina. I hated Father.

But I still loved Mother. That made it worse.

Mother took the box and broke the seal. Didn't she see the green smoke that puffed from the top? Smell the mincemeat spice that accompanied the chocolate?

She stared into the box, shoulders shaking. With a strangled sound, Mother fled into the house. I imagined her departure was to keep me from hearing her cry.

I stood in the yard.

And stood.

And stood.

The loud thump from inside the house called me into action.

I found Mother on the kitchen floor. The chocolate covered apple rolled on the white tiles--a single bite taken from its smooth surface. A half-written letter addressed to my father rested on the kitchen table. Somehow, I saw all this in tableau, spread out in front of me around my mother's body. For she was only a body. Red scratches marred her throat and burst capillaries filled her eyes.

I held her, weeping, weeping, weeping until my soul was dry. I held her, but my tears didn't bring her back. Neither did the paramedics.