Her father told her stories about princesses. Curled under her covers, waves crashing in the distance, he would turn out the lights and sit on her bed and tell her stories about princesses. There were never any princes, never any knights or armor or dragons. No, her father only ever told her stories about princesses. Princesses, he told her, didn't need anyone to save them. They fought for themselves.

These stories seemed to contrast the ones her friends parents had told them, about damsels in distress and brave princes, but her father had sworn he would never lie to her, so the other parents must have been wrong.

She remembers the day her father found her. She had been shivering in the alley way, her mother had just died. She was curled up there, kneeling next to her mother. The blood had stopped, but it was still covering her. He had lifted her up, asking her name, how old she was. Then he had hid her face in his shoulder and carried her away.

For the first month she didn't speak to him. Only sat, curled in front of their small fireplace, eating what he put in front her, leaving only to use the bathroom. He didn't seem to mind. He never raised his voice. A night, he would sit beside her and ask her name. When she didn't answer, he would take a blanket and wrap it around her shoulders. She would curl up there and sleep.

"Alena," she said, one night in front of the fire. "My name is Alena."

That was the first time she saw her father smile.

…

On sunny days, they will walk down to the beach in front of their house and spread out a blanket. Her father will bring his work and a book and a picnic. She will play in the sand and the ocean. He will stand watching her, close enough to reach her if anything happened. After, she will sit wrapped in a towel while they eat lunch on the blanket, under the burning sun.

Sometimes, when the waves are rough, she'll stumble out of the ocean with her hair matted with sand and seaweed wrapped up in it. She'll sit on the blanket then, as her father carefully brushes the tangles out, peeling the seaweed off her and throwing it into the sand. He manages never to pull her hair.

In the afternoon, she will skip up the walk back to their house. She sits on the couch watching cartoons. Outside, her father will be sitting on the beach watching the waves. She thinks the waves get boring after a while. She thinks her father could watch the waves forever.

And it's not just the waves. Even when he's inside, he'll sit at their small wooden kitchen table and watch the waves. Her father could spend hours walking through the small jungle behind their house. She has seen him walk down the beach for hours until he was just a speck in the distance. Sometimes at night, she'll hear the porch door swing open and know that he's out there, looking up at the stars.

…

She comes home on her first day of school with a map of the United States. Her father spreads it out on the kitchen table and shows her their state, way at the bottom, near another country called Mexico. Then he points to another state, way at the top on the other side. He tells her this is where he grew up.

"Why didn't you go to the ocean when you lived there?" She asks this running her finger along the small bit of sea next to the purple state labeled Massachusetts.

Her father runs a hand through her hair.

"I never had the time," he says.

…

On the second day of school, her father gets called because she hit a boy for pulling her hair. Her father spends a long time talking with her teacher and the principal. When he comes out, he takes her home early.

On the way home, he buys her a large scoop of black raspberry ice cream.

It's her favorite.

…

One night, she asks him why he saved her in that alley. He looks at her across the couch, scooting her towards him and placing a kiss on her head.

"I don't know," he says, and then, "You reminded me of someone who I couldn't save."

…

One day, there was a knock on the door. He father had sworn, which he didn't often do, and told her to hide. She ducked behind the counter. A small, Asian woman came in, dressed in all black, with black sunglasses. The woman pointed a gun at her father. She yelped, and coming from around the counter. The woman looked from her to her father. Then the woman holstered her gun, apologized and left

…

One night in her third year of high school, her father sat her down on the couch and told her everything about his past. She had cried for hours. So had he. Then she had hugged him for hours. The next morning, everything was back to normal.

…

It was the summer before she went to college. It was hot day in early July, and her father did not wake up. She sat on the phone with 911 while the sirens drew nearer. Five minutes later, they arrived. Fifteen minutes later, an EMT kneeled in front of her and offered his condolences.

…

Three days after her father's death, she stood in front of an unfamiliar door in Washington DC, all the way across the country. She had packed up the house, gave his things to charity, like he had wanted, and flown them both out to the city.

She knocks on the door, which swings open immediately. She freezes. It seems she has interrupted some sort of dinner party. Ten people are sitting around a table that has two empty chairs.

"Oh," the woman at the door, who she thought must be British, seemed surprised to find her standing there. "Hello."

"Hi," she says slowly, "I'm looking for Skye?"

"Who's looking for Skye?" But the question came from behind her, so she turned to find another woman there.

"I'm Skye," she said smiling, "What do you need?"

"You're my father's next of kin," the words slip out of her mouth, and Skye's eyes widen. She passes the papers over to her. She watches as Skye reads them, watches as all color drains from Skye's face.

"I can make all the arrangements," she says, "And just bring you everything to sign and tell you when the funeral is."

Skye scribbles down a number on a piece of paper and passes it to her.

"That's my cell," She says, and in an afterthought, "Thank you, for telling me."

Then Skye passes by her, mumbling about needing to lie down.

She stands there for a minute.

"What was your father's name?" someone asks, and she looks up to find the woman with the gun she had seen so many years ago.

"Grant Ward," she says softly. "Did you know him?"

The woman stands taking her hands and holds them, looking into her eyes.

"We'll be at the funeral," she says.

…

Five days later, she is standing in front of her father's casket as it is lowered into the ground. Three women stand beside her; Skye, the mysterious woman with the gun, and the British woman. Looking at them, she has a sort of flashback to the stories her father used to tell, and to the time she went into a bookshop and read the fairytales and saw that they were full of princes and dragons and knights.

She thought he had lied. But he had been adamant his stories were real. Then she had remembered the stories of his childhood. He had never known any real fairytales. He had told her the truth. They only one he knew. She looks at Skye.

…

"I couldn't save her," he had said.

She saved herself.

Because princesses don't need saving.