Deep in the woods, hidden by thick oak trees, lived an old hag. Or that was what people called me at least. I didn’t think I was drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but c’mon. That was a bit rude.

And I knew who turned everyone against me: that god awful, scum of the Earth, worst person on this planet, the woodcutter. God! I can’t even say his name!

But whatever. I was perfectly happy living alone in my tiny house in the middle of the woods. It didn’t bother me that I was not invited to social events. It didn’t bother me that the woodcutter remarried and was throwing great parties, while I, the mother of his children, was cast aside never to be talked to again. It didn’t bother me that he only used me because the woman he actually loved couldn’t have kids. It didn’t bother me that he spread rumors about me being a witch just so he could remarry. It didn’t bother me one bit.

And it was not like I had time to go to stupid parties anyway. I was busy.

I took out a lingonberry pie from the oven. I had spent the entire evening making it. Too bad I wasn’t hungry.

I looked around for a place to store it, but every spot was filled: cupboards cluttered with fresh cakes and cookies, countertops scattered with colorful cupcakes and waffles.

Not my fault I liked to bake. It wasn’t an obsession. And definitely not a coping mechanism to make myself busy. See, this way it was a choice. I didn’t go to parties because I wasn’t invited. I chose not to go. Because I was busy. Busy baking.

I walked out onto my small porch. The sun was setting, filling the sky with shades of orange and magenta. A cold breeze ruffled the red leaves in the trees.

I already had a few cakes out on the porch too -they didn’t fit anywhere else. I placed the pie onto a small table, next to a strawberry cake and some chocolate cookies.

Now what?

I noticed a group of people walking in the distance. They were laughing. Probably going to a party I had heard about in town. Definitely the woodcutter’s. I wasn’t going. Not because I wasn’t invited but because I was busy. Busy. Busy making raspberry pie!

Great. I didn’t have raspberries. I grabbed my lantern and a cloak and ventured off into the woods to find some.

By the time I got back, it was freezing and the forest was pitch black. Good thing the lights were on in my cabin so I could see where it was. Wait. I didn’t leave the lights on.

As I stepped onto the porch, I noticed that the cake, pie, and cookies had been eaten. The door was ajar. I swear if this was another trick done by the woodcutter to make my life more miserable, I was going to kill him.

I grabbed a broom from the porch to defend myself with and slowly opened the door. Inside, I noticed that all my baked goods were gone, and instead my countertops were filled with empty plates. And at the table sat two children.

The woodcutter’s children.

My children.

I slowly closed the door. It creaked. The lock clicked. The children stared at me, frozen, mouth full of cake.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked.

I didn’t think the woodcutter ever told them that they were my children.

The two kept staring at me.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out? Does your father know you’re here?”

“Are you a witch?” the boy asked. The girl kicked him underneath the table.

“No. Aren’t you supposed to be home?” I asked, slowly making my way to them.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “But our mom abandoned us in the woods and we can’t find our way back.”

“Is that so?”

Ha. The woodcutter should’ve stayed with me. I would’ve never abandoned my children. Bet they meant the world to him. Bet he’ll be so worried tomorrow morning if they don’t come back.

“Why don’t you two spend the night here, then?” I asked. “You can eat all the cake you want, and you don’t have to sleep out there in the cold.”

The children’s eyes lit up, and they happily continued eating the cake. I watched them scarf down whatever treats I could get them. The woodcutter would be devastated if anything happened to his little angels. I could keep them here for a few nights just to scare him. He deserved the scare for what he did to me. Actually, a scare like that was mild in comparison to pretending to love me, forcing me to go through childbirth, and taking my children away from me.

Maybe there was something more that I could do, now that the things that mattered to him the most were in my possession. I could really screw with him, but I couldn’t think of anything as life ruining as what he did to me.

I watched the two scarf down more and more cake. The boy’s table manners were comparably worse, but they both devoured cake like their lives depended on it. Now I knew what people meant when they described someone eating like a pig.

“My papa makes pie that tastes just like this!” the boy muffled, his mouth full of food. “It’s really good. It’s his own secret recipe. He says it’s best in town, so it’s definitely better than yours!”

That was my recipe he stole, you idiot. Can’t believe that swine went after my baking too. The one thing I still had.

“Our papa is really nice,” the girl added. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, he’s the woodcutter. He does really kind things. Like he brought these clothes for us!”

Only then did I pay attention to what the children were wearing: matching dark green outfits.

“It’s my favorite dress!” the girl added.

The woodcutter brought those clothes for you? As if. They were my grandmother’s. I gave them to him as a gift back when I still thought we would live happily ever after. And oh wonderful, my grandmother’s age-old clothes were now covered in frosting and jam. That didn’t enrage me one bit.

“We should take back some food to papa!” the boy said.

“What a great idea!” the girl beamed.

Oh, of course. Such a marvelous idea. Give the man who has already taken so much from me even more.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I could not listen to those ungrateful brats talk about how amazing their father was for one more second.

After calming down a bit, I walked back towards the kitchen. But before entering, I could hear the two whispering and snickering about something. I eavesdropped on them for a bit.

“Did you see how mad she got when you mentioned papa?! It was so funny, she looked like she was about to explode!” the girl whispered.

“I didn’t think her face could get any more wrinkles, but when she got mad she looked exactly like Benjamin!” the boy snickered. Benjamin was their really old (and ugly) English bulldog.

“I know! She’s so much uglier in person. Papa said she was madly in love with him, but no wonder he rejected her. She looks like a human and a pig had a baby!”

“Or a raccoon -that would explain her smell!”

They knew who I was. And that the woodcutter had “rejected” me. And dared to bring it up just to see my reaction. All while eating my cakes. They really were the woodcutter’s children.

All the rage I had just gotten rid of came back. My blood was boiling. How dare they? How dare they come here and eat my cake and stain my grandmother’s clothes and boast about the woodcutter, all while talking behind my back and playing stupid mind games. How dare they?

“Her baking isn’t even that good, I know papa said her food tasted like garbage, but I would rather die of starvation than eat another cookie.”

I was so mad that I could kill them.

…

I could kill them.

That way I could take everything away from the woodcutter, just like he took everything away from me.

I’d finally get closure.

No, no. They were still my children. I gave birth to them. The reasonable thing was to feel empathy for those poor, poor kids who were cold and hungry and abandoned in the woods.

“When I first saw her, I thought she had just come from the bath, but turns out her hair was just greasy!”

“Well based on her smell, I doubt that she takes any baths!”

But I couldn’t. I could only feel hate. Because despite being my children I could only see him. I could see his lies and his ill manners. I could see his mean nature.

But maybe there was a hint of jealousy there too. I could also see what I could’ve had. I could’ve had a loving family. And maybe I would’ve raised kinder children. I could see the warmth and care he had provided. He was supposed to give that to me too. But he just used me. Made me have his children because his actual wife couldn’t. He lied to me. Pretended to love me just so I would splurt out two piles of flesh for him. Those things right there. Eating my cakes and pies. Taking even more away from me. All while boasting about how great their father was. All while talking behind my back. All while being rude horrible disgusting swine. Just like their father.

That was it. I’ve thought about killing the woodcutter before. But killing his children would cause him far greater pain. Not like these pigs would contribute much to society anyway.

I walked back into the kitchen.

“I just had an idea! Let me bake you a really special cake from a secret recipe. You’ll love it!” I said, walking over to my oven and lighting it up.

I could burn them.

Burn them and drop off their bodies in front of the woodcutter’s stupid party and disappear before anyone notices. His pain would be indescribable.

The oven was ablaze, far stronger than I had ever set it before.

“Come look, the fire is beautiful!” I said.

The boy jumped off from the kitchen chair. Wide-eyed from amazement, he looked into the fire and stood close enough that it was really easy for me to push him into the oven. He fell in, his face first.

He screamed. He somehow managed to wiggle himself around, so that he faced me. He tried to get out, but I was covering the opening so that he couldn’t. Then he tried to hit me, but I grabbed hold of his wrists and kept him in the oven.

Amidst my battle with the little brat, I felt a vapid push. The girl had sneaked up behind me, and flung her entire body towards me. I lost my balance and fell into the oven, on top of the boy. The girl took hold of the boy’s ankles and yanked him out from under me, before I got the chance to catch him. In the blink of an eye he was out of the oven, and the two of them pushed me further and further in. It was impossible for me to turn around, and despite my kicking, I soon felt the oven door push closed against my legs.

After a few seconds, I heard my front door slam shut. Now I was alone.

The oven was boiling. Sweat was dripping down my back and it was getting harder to breathe. I managed to turn around, touching the surfaces of the oven as little as possible. I kicked the oven’s door but it wouldn’t budge.

Panic began to rise in me as I realized I could not get the door open. I kept kicking it with all my might but nothing. I screamed for help, but no one could hear me.

And even if they could, I doubted that anyone would come.

Upon realizing that I stopped.

The door would not open.

Nobody cared enough about me to help.

I knew I was going to die.

For god’s sake I tried to kill a child.

My child.

But I failed.

I knew I deserved this ending. But I didn’t deserve the woodcutter forcing me to have his children. I didn’t deserve to be abandoned and have everyone hate me. I didn’t deserve my loneliness.

I knew it was immoral, but I was disappointed that I failed. The woodcutter deserved my ending just as much as I did. He deserved to suffer much, much more than I will in this oven. My suffering will end soon, but if I had succeeded, his suffering would have lasted his entire life time. So I was disappointed that I failed.

And so are you.