The Ladyroach – A Fable of Disguise, Love, and Self-Acceptance

In the dark, forgotten pipes beneath an old apartment building, lived a curious little cockroach. Her home was shadowy, damp, and crisscrossed with secret tunnels, but she was content to explore when the humans were away or asleep. Her mother had always warned her, “Beware of humans, my child. If they see you, they’ll crush you without mercy.”

Yet, one evening, everything changed. The apartment above her nest, long empty and silent, welcomed a new tenant—a young man with a handsome face and bright, gentle eyes. She first spotted him when the bathroom light flicked on unexpectedly. She scurried for cover behind the shower curtain, but from there, she watched him—tall, fair, and graceful.

Unlike the stories her mother told, this human didn’t seem cruel. He glanced around the dusty bathroom, sighed at the mess, then walked away. Intrigued, the little cockroach followed him into the living room, hiding in shadows, marveling at the treasures he unpacked: clothes, utensils, and finally, a collection of canvases, paints, and brushes. He was an artist.

For the first time in her life, the cockroach was enchanted—not just by his beauty but by his craft. Each day, under the veil of night, she watched him conjure vivid images onto canvas: fruits, lamps, scattered fabrics, even the crumpled sheet from his bed. His world was one of color and wonder, a world she wished she belonged to.

Then one morning, a ladybug fluttered through the open window and landed on the painter’s palette. The man smiled, calling her “little beauty,” and gently coaxed her onto his hand. He admired the insect and placed her carefully on a potted plant, painting her bright red shell and jet-black spots against the lush green leaves. When the ladybug finally flew away, the man bid her a tender farewell.

The cockroach watched, feeling a pang of longing. She despised her dull, brown body—the ugly cousin to the lovely ladybug. How she wished to be so delicate and adored. As she wandered past the drying canvas that night, she brushed against the thick oil paint still wet on the surface. A stroke of brilliant red clung to her foot, giving her an idea.

She smeared red paint across her back, cautiously dabbing on two black spots using her reflection in a nearby glass as a guide. When she looked at herself, she no longer saw a cockroach—she saw a makeshift ladybug.

At dawn, emboldened, she approached the painter. She stepped boldly onto his blank canvas. To her delight, he smiled warmly. “Hello, little ladybug! Would you like to be painted too?”

He lifted her tenderly onto his finger and painted her, creating a delicate portrait while she stood perfectly still, savoring the attention. He placed her on his plant and even left raisins nearby for her, as he’d heard ladybugs liked them.

But the oils smeared easily. Each night, while he slept, she repainted herself—touching up her disguise so she could remain his lovely ladybug.

Days turned into weeks, and she never returned to her family. They presumed her dead—devoured, squashed, or vanished into the world beyond. But she didn’t care. She had love, she thought. She had art. She had a purpose.

Yet, as time passed, her body grew. Her wings developed, her legs lengthened, and more spots appeared on her back. The painter noticed. He marveled aloud, “You’ve grown… but how curious.” Still, he cherished his muse.

Then one day, a friend visited. Spotting the insect, the friend burst out laughing, “That’s no ladybug! That’s a cockroach!”

The painter was furious. He dismissed his friend, refusing to believe it. But doubt took root. The painter watched the creature he adored with suspicion. His dreams soured, and one restless night, he decided to capture her to be sure.

The next day, when she climbed onto his hand, he quickly dropped her into a clear plastic container, sealing it tight. She scratched at the walls, heartbroken—not just trapped but unable to refresh her painted disguise. By morning, the colors on her back had smeared away.

The painter took her to his friends. Their mockery was cruel, their laughter piercing. “It’s a roach!” they jeered. Shame burned his cheeks. He turned away, unable to look her in the eye.

In the chaos, someone knocked the container from his hands. The lid popped off. She seized the chance, scurrying desperately. Feet stomped around her, but she was swift, and for the first time, she used her wings.

Up she soared, tears wetting her vision. The man she loved became a shrinking figure below, his affection gone, replaced by revulsion.

She flew far and high, the wind whistling through her fragile wings. She laughed bitterly through her sorrow. Her wings, once the sign of adulthood she never wished for, had saved her. They carried her away—but away from love, away from her painted fantasy.

She would always be a cockroach, no matter the paint, no matter the dreams.

Moral of the Story

Pretending to be what you are not may win admiration, but truth cannot stay hidden forever. Acceptance of oneself is the only way to truly be free. Hiding your nature for love or approval can only lead to heartbreak when the illusion fades.