Once upon a time — and yes, we're starting it that way, because that's how it goes — there were three bears who lived together in a little cottage at the edge of the woods.
There was a great big Papa Bear, with a great big voice and a great big chair and a great big everything. There was a middle-sized Mama Bear, with a middle-sized voice and a middle-sized chair and a general air of keeping everything running. And there was a small little Baby Bear, with a small little voice and a small little chair and an enormous amount of opinions about breakfast.
Every morning, Papa Bear made porridge. Same recipe his mother taught him. Same pot, same stove, same three bowls — a great big bowl, a middle-sized bowl, and a small little bowl. He poured the porridge and set them on the table, and every morning they were too hot to eat right away.
So every morning, the three bears went for a walk in the woods while the porridge cooled. And every morning, they left the door unlocked. Because they lived in the woods. And that's what you do when you live in the woods.
Now. On this particular morning, a girl came wandering down the path.
Her name was Goldilocks, on account of the hair. She was nineteen, and she'd been walking for a while — the kind of walking you do when you've had a fight with your mother and said the thing you can't unsay, and now you don't know where you're going but you're definitely not going back. Not yet.
She walked until the anger wore off. Then she kept walking because the woods were quiet and the quiet felt good.
She found the cottage by accident. The door was open. She knocked, and nobody answered. She shouldn't have gone in.
But it was warm inside, and she was tired, and the porridge smelled wonderful.
She went to the table where three bowls of porridge sat waiting.
She tasted the porridge in the great big bowl — Papa Bear's porridge.
"Ooh!" She fanned her mouth. "Too hot."
She tasted the porridge in the middle-sized bowl — Mama Bear's porridge.
She made a face. "Too cold."
Then she tasted the porridge in the small little bowl — Baby Bear's porridge.
She closed her eyes. "Mmm. Just right."
And she ate it all up. Every last bite. Scraped the bowl with the spoon and everything.
Then she wandered into the sitting room, where three chairs were arranged by the fireplace.
She sat down in the great big chair — Papa Bear's chair.
"Too hard," she said, shifting around. Like sitting on a park bench.
She sat down in the middle-sized chair — Mama Bear's chair.
"Too soft." She sank in so deep her knees came up to her chin.
Then she sat down in the small little chair — Baby Bear's chair.
"Just right," she said, and settled in with a sigh.
But she'd barely gotten comfortable when — crack — the bottom gave out and she went right through. The chair broke to pieces underneath her and she sat there on the floor in the wreckage of it, looking down at what she'd done.
The thing that fits isn't always the thing that holds. But she was too tired to think about that.
She went upstairs. Three beds in a row.
She lay down on the great big bed — Papa Bear's bed.
"Too hard," she murmured, turning this way and that. Like sleeping on a table.
She lay down on the middle-sized bed — Mama Bear's bed.
"Too soft." She sank into it like quicksand. Couldn't even roll over.
Then she lay down on the small little bed — Baby Bear's bed.
"Just right," she whispered.
And she was asleep before she finished saying it. Deep, dreamless sleep — the kind you fall into when you've been carrying something heavy and you finally put it down.
The three bears came home from their walk.
Papa Bear went to the table first. He looked at his great big bowl and said, in his great big voice:
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN EATING MY PORRIDGE."
Mama Bear looked at her middle-sized bowl and said, in her middle-sized voice:
"Somebody has been eating my porridge."
Baby Bear looked at his small little bowl and said, in his small little voice:
"Somebody has been eating my porridge — and they ate it all up!"
He looked genuinely devastated. Mama Bear put a paw on his shoulder.
They went into the sitting room.
Papa Bear looked at his great big chair and said, in his great big voice:
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR."
Mama Bear looked at her middle-sized chair and said, in her middle-sized voice:
"Somebody has been sitting in my chair."
Baby Bear looked at his small little chair — what was left of it — and said, in his small little voice:
"Somebody has been sitting in my chair, and they've broken it all to pieces!"
He picked up one of the legs. It dangled.
They went upstairs.
Papa Bear looked at his great big bed, with the covers all rumpled, and said, in his great big voice:
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED."
Mama Bear looked at her middle-sized bed, with the pillow all squished, and said, in her middle-sized voice:
"Somebody has been sleeping in my bed."
Baby Bear looked at his small little bed, and said, in his small little voice:
"Somebody has been sleeping in my bed — and she's still here!"
Goldilocks opened her eyes. Three bears in the doorway, looking down at her.
She didn't scream. They didn't move. They were just looking at her — a great big bear, a middle-sized bear, and a small little bear — and she was lying in the small one's bed with porridge on her chin and a broken chair downstairs.
"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice cracked a little. "I ate the porridge. I broke the chair. I shouldn't be here."
She was crying. Not dramatically — just everything from that morning catching up to her all at once. The fight with her mother. The walking. The being lost and tired and hungry and not knowing where she fit.
Mama Bear sat down on the edge of the bed.
"You ate his porridge," she said, nodding at Baby Bear.
"I know. I'm sorry."
Baby Bear thought about this. "Did you like it?"
"It was perfect."
"I know," he said. "I keep telling them."
They made her tea. She told them about the fight, and the walking, and the trying things that were too big or too small or too hard or too soft, and how the only things that felt right seemed to break underneath her.
Mama Bear listened. Papa Bear made more porridge. Baby Bear sat next to her and told her about wanting eggs for breakfast and nobody listening.
She helped him glue the chair back together. It wobbled a little, but it held.
She walked home in the late afternoon. Said the things she needed to say to her mother. Her mother made porridge — not because it was great, but because it was warm and it was ready and it was what she had.
Goodnight to the three bears and their unlocked door.
Goodnight to the great big bowl, the middle-sized bowl, and the small little bowl.
Goodnight to the great big chair, the middle-sized chair, and the pieces of the small little chair, glued back together and only a little wobbly.
Goodnight to Baby Bear, who finally got his eggs the next morning.
Goodnight to Goldilocks, who kept looking for things that were just right, and sometimes found them.
Goodnight.