This web site contains stories of physical, mental, emotional, and sexual child abuse.

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“Is that your Princess dress?” I asked my three-year-old granddaughter, as she walked out of her bedroom dragging the dress behind her.

“Yes,” she softly answered, with a smile.

And just where is your magic wand with the star on it?”

“You got to make one for me,” she replied.

This warm feeling comes over me when she does such things and a smile appears on my face. However, within seconds this feeling of sadness always over-shadows that wonderful feeling. I look at her innocence and I wonder how and why no one at the Children’s Home Orphanage, where I was raised, ever had such a feeling for any of us children.

I cannot recall ever wanting to be a Prince. By the time I was three-years-old, and learned of such things, my young spirit had already been broken. The orphanage Matrons made sure we kids knew that we were unwanted and that we had no value to the world.

After kissing little Madison good-bye I closed my son’s front door and walked next door to my house. I changed clothes and headed to the local Home Depot, where I purchased several items. I made my way back home and immediately went into my garage. For the next three hours I secretly worked making two magic wands. Each eighteen inches long, each having a large five inch glittering star on the end. One made of gold for the Princess and one wand made of silver for the Prince.

The next morning when she arrived at our house for us to baby-sit; this sixty-year-old Prince, with an old torn towel draped over his shoulders, and his three-year-old Princess played in the castle made of cardboard out on the screened-in front porch.

I guess it’s never to late to be a Prince if one will only open their eyes and realize that there was a Princess, in his own family, who needed a Prince from the orphanage.

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