I will always remember the day I met my prince. We did not meet in a romantic setting, with candles and roses. There was no grand ball held for him to choose a girl. I met my prince immediately following the most tragic event of my life.

Until I was thirteen, I had lived a wonderful, if sheltered life. I had wonderful parents who loved me, an older sister, and a brother who lived far away in Chicago. Though they often teased me about being the baby, the three of us were very close. My father wrote headlines for the New York World, and my mother sewed clothes for my sister and me. We were not rich in any regard, but when my mother found time to take in washing for other people in our apartment complex, we got by.

We were as happy as we could be, until the trolley strike. The city's trolley workers were underpaid, and worked in very dangerous conditions. So they decided to go on strike. Unfortunately, the strike went badly. The strikers became violent when no one listened to their demands. They began attacking co-workers who didn't join the strike, and the police officers who were called in to protect them. Before long, a large-scale riot was under way.

My father was attacked as he walked to work one day. A police man mistook him for a trolley striker as he was pushing his way through the picket lines to get to his office. By the time the officer realized his mistake; my father was dead.

My mother took the news very hard. For the first week after returning from school to learn of my fathers death, My sister was the main provider for our family. My mother fled to her room, crying. I heard her constant wails, but never saw her face until his funeral the next week. At the funeral, my mother sobbed harder than she ever had. When the casket closed, her tears stopped. I never saw her cry again.

In the months that followed, my Mom took in every bit of work she could. She washed clothing for the whole apartment complex, sewed clothing for our neighbors' grandchildren, and ran errands for the elderly man who lived upstairs. My sister, Julia quit school and began working as a newsie. When the newsies went on strike a few weeks later, she found another job as a flower seller. Experience told Julia to stay as far away from strikes as she could. Every night, my mom and sister returned home later and later. But no matter how hard they worked, there was never quite enough money to buy food, and pay the bills.

My Mom ate less and less, telling me and Julia that she had already eaten, was eating at a friends house, or some similar lie. We saw through them all. Since my father's death, Mom had no friends. They were kind and sympathetic when the funeral rolled around, and for a week or so after, but when the rent check came, when there wasn't enough food, and we were starving, they were nowhere to be found. We knew that Mom wasn't eating, but what could we say? She had taught us not to question her.

Six months after my Dad's death, my Mom got sick. She was starving to death and couldn't work. Julia and I forced her to eat, but it wasn't enough. She had gone back to working as a newsie, and also sold flowers at night while I stayed home and cared for Mom, but it wasn't enough.

A month after she fell ill, my Mom died. My brother came and paid for the funeral. While I was grateful for his kindness, Julia was resentful.

She pounded the walls, screamed, sobbed and tore her hair. "WHY NOW? WHY NOW? WHY DOES HE CARE NOW? WHERE WAS HE A MONTH AGO? WHERE WAS HE WHEN DAD DIED? WHERE?" Julia's wild screams turned to a desperate whisper as she sobbed facedown on her bed. "Why didn't he help when it mattered?"

Julia had always been the dramatic one, the bold one. Her emotions were always at surface level. She sobbed in her room for days, just like Mom had. I also grieved the way my Mother had, but I learned a different lesson. I saved my tears for the dead of night when Julia slept. Though on the inside, I grieved, I let no one see it.

After the funeral, my brother went back to Chicago. He wanted so much to help us, but he was no better off than we. He worked in a factory, and was paid next to nothing. For a few days after he left, my sister was inconsolable. Nothing could convince her to leave her room. Then I awoke one morning and she was gone.

There was a note on her bed, addressed to me. It read:

My beloved sister,

I am so sorry for leaving you. I apologize for being inconsiderate of your feelings and not realizing that you are grieving too. I know that we should be able to get through this together. In a perfect world, we would, and we would grow closer in the process. We would beat the odds and rise to the top. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger! right? In a perfect world, yes. In a perfect world you wouldn't be reading this letter, Neither of our parents would have died, and our brother would live here with us. We would both be in school and I would have suitors begging for my attention.

Sorry if I am bursting your bubble, but we don't live in a perfect world. Trying to stay together would kill us. I need to survive the only way I know how. I am so sorry that I cant be there for you. You will never be far from my thoughts, and will always be in my prayers.

All my love,

Julia

For the first time since my father's funeral, I cried. For three days I didn't leave Julia's bed. I neither slept nor ate, like there was anything to eat anyway. On the fourth day, I dried my tears, put on my boots and coat, the only items the landlord had left us, and slipped away from my home, never to return.

I tried my hand at begging, but was only scoffed at. a week later, My stomach and pockets empty, I lay down to sleep on the side of the street. I was too tired to care about the disgusted looks people cast my way, or the fact that I was lying down in a mud puddle, I fell asleep.

I awoke with a start, and looked up into the most beautiful grey eyes that I had ever seen…