I am the apple of her eye.

All of them in fact.

I have five aunts, and a mother.

Mom calls me the Little King, her little Emperor, the man of the house. Where is my father? I don't know or care.

My aunts have always been there. Mom defied everyone when she got pregnant, as far as I know my aunts have never been courted.

They are my court. They laugh at my jokes, they bring me snacks, they make me cocoa, they run my baths. When I write stories they print them and paste them in a book, and when I paint pictures they frame them on the walls.

Their houseguests are frequent, and everyone loves me.

The newspapers always cover our parties. We have the best costume parties. No one seemed surprised when I chose Napoleon this year. It only felt good to me. It only felt right.

I smile a lot. Of course, I am happy. Some people find it odd that I am.

Supposedly I'm spoiled and smothered, pampered and wronged because I've never had a childhood. I've never been normal.

A writer spent a year with us, he wrote a novel based upon us, and it was a sensation. It spoke of secrets and eccentricities and the tragedy of my Aunts and my own strange life. It spoke of a mound in the backyard covered in flowers and it spoke of the strange occurrence of the disappearence of my father.

It said I was sad and spoiled.

It said I was a living tragedy.

But he didn't understand a thing. He left my mother crying and betrayed and my aunt's faces turned from pale to scarlet as they turned the pages of the book and dealt with the curious reporters, especially as the movie deal went by.

It does not really bother me, though. Because I know the truth.

I am the little King.