In any fairy-tale, getting what you wish for comes at a cost. There is always a codicil, an addendum to the granting of a wish. There is always a price to pay. How was I to know, as I held her that night, as I stared at the ultrasound screen, as I burst out of the clinic, fumbling with my phone, trying to press the right buttons so I could call my husband, the boy from the courtyard, and say, you’ll never guess what I’ve just seen? How I’ve longed that it could have been me, the wisher, who had to pay the magic’s price, to bear the brunt. I would give anything to take the curse from her, to
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