The story of Rose Red has been mangled since its first telling. Here’s how the story really went, as taken from a hand-written account handed down from generation to generation in my family:

Once upon a time, there lived a woman named Rose Red. It so happened that Rose Red’s father inherited a house built by his grandfather in a distant realm. Knowing that Rose Red loved history and needed a quiet space in which to work, her father asked her if she would take care of the farmhouse and keep it safe from time and anyone who sought to do it harm. Rose Red readily agreed and moved to the family home, which was located near an isolated hamlet deep in the mountains, far from the larger towns favored by so many others.

The farmhouse was so isolated, however, that Rose Red soon became quite lonely. It had been some time since her last relationship ended and she dearly missed her only son, who worked in a distant town. Not being one to endure for long what was well within her ability to change, Rose Red placed an advertisement on the community board at the crossroads in the nearby hamlet.

Not long after, a mighty Knight of the Realm knocked on her door. When she opened it, he unsheathed his sword and held it in the sunlight for all to see its strength and purpose.

“Fair damsel,” the knight said. “I hear you’re looking for a prince strong of arm and spirit.”

“I am,” Rose Red said.

“Then I’m your man. Behold my shiny sword! It has cleaved the head from many a dastardly bandit in my extensive travels throughout the realms.”

Rose Red, being a kind woman, said, “That’s nice.”

“I’m glad you agree. I like my women docile and obedient. That’s a woman’s place, you know, obeying her man, so if you want to be with me, it’s my way or the highway.”

Rose Red pointed to the thoroughfare on the other side of her yard. “There’s the highway.”

The knight sheathed his sword with a scowl. “Fine. You weren’t good enough for me anyway.”

Rose Red closed the door and congratulated herself on a narrow miss.

Some time later, a great Apiarist of the Realm knocked on her door. When she opened it, he said, “Would you like to see my honey dipper?”

“Your honey dipper?” Rose Red asked.

“Yeah, you know. My honey dipper.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and leered. “I’m only interested in dipping honey. You look like you have a great honey pot.”

Rose Red sighed. “I don’t know you well enough to let your honey dipper anywhere near my honey pot.”

The apiarist’s leer turned into a scowl. “Your loss, biyatch.”

Rose Red shut the door and wondered if all men became mean when they didn’t get their way. Surely not, she told herself. Surely these two men, the mighty Knight and the great Apiarist, were not good representatives of the male species.

A while later, a renowned Silversmith knocked on her door carrying a satchel of finely wrought jewelry. After showing her his wares and impressing her with his kindness and education, he confessed, “I spend every penny I make. I’m just not that interested in managing my affairs, so you’ll have to do that for me. Oh, and once we’re married, I want to quit work and only make jewelry as a hobby, so you’ll have to be the bread winner. You’re a good housekeeper, too, right? I know an awesome Jack of All Trades who can take care of everything else.”

Rose Red thanked him for his time and closed the door on him, all the more discouraged in her search by the encounter.

The next time someone came to her door, Rose Red steeled herself for yet another bad encounter, but it was her beloved sister, Rose White, who was happily married and lived near their father some distance away. After catching up on the family doings and hearing great tales of her sister’s life, Rose Red shared her recent encounters with the three princes she’d met, and the doubts growing within her as to the path she’d chosen.

“I’ve met the knight, the apiarist, and the silversmith,” Rose White said. “They’re not the only princes out there. Trust me, sister. Your prince is out there. You just have to find him.”

Rose Red hugged her sister and said goodbye with her faith in men fully restored. Over the next two years, prince after prince knocked at her door, and most of the men were lovely people, if not quite right for her.

A thoughtful Farmer of the Realm wooed her with his fine crop of radishes, but he insisted that she would have to eschew all electronic technology, an impossibility given her job.

An athletic Boater of the Realm seemed a good fit until he learned that she had never properly learned to swim.

A kind-hearted Engineer also seemed promising, until she realized that his personality was so mild, he would never survive her father’s gauntlet.

Some men simply lived too far away. A talented Illustrator dazzled her with his portraits of the greatest superheroes of all time. A savvy Marketer softened her heart with tales of his children. A wealthy Financier enchanted her with his worldly charm and wit. Alas, none could bend their own hearts to the understanding that she was willing to move for the right prince, as long as she could spend a certain amount of time at the farmhouse with which she had been entrusted.

Other men simply did not meet her standards. A crafty Burglar swore he’d landed on the straight and narrow after his last run in with the Sheriff. A slovenly Hunter lived in a house with no floors. A sweet Plumber responded to all her discussions of science, philosophy, and politics with a puzzled look and the remark, “Can we cuddle now?”

Still other princes possessed loathsome personalities. A ne’er-do-well Photographer insulted her at will, then ridiculed her irritation. A cocky Footballer spoke endlessly of his own deeds and never a kind word of others. An arrogant Master Carpenter continually browbeat her with his own opinions, hers never being sound enough regardless of how factually based they were.

One by one, princes from nearby and far away came to her door, and one by one, Rose Red turned them away until at last she began to believe that she would never find the prince her sister had told her about.

One day, Rose Red’s father visited the farmhouse, and as they were sipping sweet tea on the porch, she told him of her many dating travails and asked for his advice. Was she being too picky? Should she perhaps lower her standards or accept a less than worthy prince?

“No, Rose Red,” her father said gently. “Never settle for less than you deserve.”

Sadly, the page on which Rose Red’s story was written was torn here and no more is known, or perhaps the remainder has not yet been written. Perhaps Rose Red lives still in her beloved farmhouse where she spends her days working or tending to family, and waits for not the perfect prince, but the perfect prince for her.