The Aftermath – What Happens After “Happily Ever After”?

Once upon a time, a grand fairy tale unfolded—a princess, a magical ball, a fairy godmother, dwarves, elves, leprechauns, and even the shoemaker’s son (who arrived in place of his father, who was away on urgent royal shoe duty). The ballroom had shimmered with enchantment, the champagne flowed like dreams, and silver-tipped wands twirled under diamond chandeliers.

And at the stroke of midnight, just as the final spell settled over the starry sky, the fairy tale ended.

Or so the princess had believed.

The next morning told a different story.

She awoke far too early, her head throbbing with the remnants of celebration and her feet sore from one too many enchanted waltzes. Her royal gown lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. A misplaced glass slipper was perched precariously on the bathroom sink, next to a half-empty flute of champagne. And beside her, the prince—her prince—was snoring like a troll and drooling onto the silk pillow.

“This wasn’t in the storybook,” she muttered.

Bleary-eyed, she dragged herself to the bathroom. The enchanted mirror, always eager to declare her beauty to the world, sat silently. It too seemed hungover. She caught her reflection: mascara smudged like war paint, hair resembling a bird’s nest, dark circles large enough to be mistaken for bruises.

“No, thank you,” she whispered to the mirror before it could speak.

She sipped the lukewarm champagne, hoping it might dull the throbbing in her skull. It didn’t. Her stomach lurched with protest. She eyed the toilet. For a brief moment, the idea of hurling sounded strangely promising—but then her stomach settled.

Stumbling back into the room, she surveyed the wreckage. An overturned chair draped with a brocade vest. A single glove on the bureau. Half-eaten apples on the nightstand. And what looked like…a crushed pumpkin? With a tail?

“Oh no.”

Heart racing, she peeked closer. Thankfully, no squashed mice. Just a ribbon—possibly from a late-night rodent gambling ring? She vaguely recalled the mice downing cider and playing dice with trolls. Or were they goblins? The open bar, she remembered, had drawn in all kinds.

At her cousin’s wedding, a group of billy goats had tried to crash the reception. The guards had spotted them just before they reached the buffet table.

“Creatures will do anything for a shot of vodka,” her cousin had quipped.

From the bed, the prince let out a low, drawn-out fart that rattled the silence.

“Oh gods.”

She winced. What did she really know about him? Their whirlwind romance had been built on music, magic, and moonlit horse rides. But could four or five pages of storybook chemistry truly support a lifelong commitment?

Did he believe in unicorns? Would he insist their children be taught by banshees? Which royal in-laws would host the seasonal feasts? She remembered her stepmother’s skeptical voice asking, “Are you really ready?”

And she had been—so sure, so starry-eyed.

But now?

Now she wasn’t so certain.

Still clinging to her champagne, she glanced over at the prince. Despite the drool and the…aromas, he was devastatingly handsome. Chiseled jawline. A princely wave of hair falling boyishly over one eye. If it weren’t for the farting, he’d be perfect.

But perfection, she realized, was an illusion. Fairy tales rarely mentioned morning breath.

She walked to the window, sighing, pondering.

That’s when she noticed him.

A well-dressed cockroach stood on the windowsill, top hat slightly askew, monocle in place, arms behind his back like a seasoned butler.

“Ah-hem.”

She blinked. “Yes?”

“Do you think he’s a good man?” the cockroach asked politely.
“In your heart of hearts—do you believe in him?”

She thought. Of how he had gently held her hand as fairies fluttered overhead. How he had smiled at frogs claiming royal lineage. How he had retrieved her godmother’s wand (yet again) from the powder room with patience and grace. How he had whispered her name like a prayer.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I do.”

The cockroach nodded sagely.

“Then have faith. Love is not a spell; it is a choice, made daily. He’s a prince, yes—but also just a man. As you are a princess, and also just a woman. Fairy tales don’t end with the ball, you know. That’s only the beginning.”

She stared at him.

After a long pause, she raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting a cricket.”

The cockroach smirked.
“That wasn’t your story. This is. Now choose how you want it told.”

With that, he bowed, clicked his heels, and flew away into the morning sky.

Setting her empty glass aside, the princess staggered back to bed. She collapsed with a graceless flop onto the mattress.

The prince, still deep in sleep, instinctively rolled toward her. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. He whispered her name, softly, tenderly.

It was awful. His breath could fell a dragon.

But still… she smiled.

Because no fairy tale ever said it would be perfect. Just magical in its own messy, maddening, magnificent way.

And for now, that was enough.

🧠 Moral of the Story:

“Happily ever after” doesn’t mean perfect. It means choosing love through the mess, the farts, the morning breath, and the doubt. Because real fairy tales are lived, not just written.