My father had built it for me, his little princess.

A double-storied palace with pillars in the front and a courtyard that went all around the white mansion. It had a steepled roof that was painted a bright red: My favorite color. Inside, he built me bedrooms and stairs and a kitchen. And four little white beds for the four bedrooms.

My father said they were all mine.

I had watched in amazement as my father built me my fortress, piece by piece. He took care of every detail, making sure it was perfect. It was the most beautiful palace I had ever seen. He even got me a royal car: My very own Rolls Royce. Painted black, its shiny brass and copper engine shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight as it adorned my green courtyard.

When he was done, he sat me down and told me, “This is for you, princess. Just for you.”
I hugged him. This was the best gift he had ever given me. I now had my very own palace.

That was 20 years ago. Today, I live in a one-bedroom rented apartment. My two-storey mansion, red steeple and all, never survived the vagaries of time.

After all, that aging shoebox had to give way someday. Even the bright red paint that had dulled over the years, could not disguise the weathered shoebox that my father had magically transformed. The Rolls Royce — a freebie that came with those noodle packets Mother cooked every Sunday night — had stopped running, its shiny engine, now rusted and disfigured.



Twenty years later, that ratty old shoebox lies stashed away in the dusty corner of my garage and I’m clueless on the whereabouts of the Rolls Royce. But the memories are still here — fresh as the first coat of red paint that cleverly concealed the scalloped edges of the shoebox.

I remember sitting cross-legged, across from daddy, as he carefully cut into the soft cardboard, carving out the windows. I watched as he painted the roof a fire-engine red, and taped a toothpick that was to become the ‘spire’. I even helped him a bit, handing him the scissors and tape whenever he needed it.

It was one of those epiphanous moments where I watched, open mouthed, as my father transformed an ordinary shoebox into a place that had soon become my escape into fairyland.

It was my very first experience with the magic of love.