Celia
I was poor and dreadfully lonely. I had no friends because I was homeschooled by my older sisters, tracing words and algorithms on a unkempt slate covered in the writings from ten years of work. Mother was often out, working hard to support our family of five. I tried to avoid thoughts that our lifestyle was dangerously precarious, but I couldn’t dismiss worries about money and food. Although I can now say it made me precocious, at the time it felt tedious.
However, every Sunday, Mother would give us coins so we could run over to the ice cream parlor. This was the one highlight of my week not just because of the freedom but also because it provided an opportunity to prove that I was worthy of Mother’s love. I worshiped her, and I wanted her attention constantly. I followed every precept and order issued. Alas, she never seemed to take notice. Until my 11th birthday, January 12, 1902 when she gave me a present I would never forget.
It was a Sunday. I sat around our wooden table for breakfast, tapping my worn leather shoes against the dirt floor. No one had said anything about my birthday. Did they forget? I instinctively swept a strand of ebony hair into my mouth.
“Celia you mustn't chew. You know what it does to you!” Mother’s stern voice penetrated my thoughts as I looked up, the hair dropping out of my mouth. “Besides, I was thinking of taking you to the theatre for your birthday so try to stay presentable.”
The corners of my mouth immediately slid into a smile as I struggled to contain ecstasy.
“We leave during our normal postprandial baths, so bathe early.”
“Thank you so much Mother, really!” I exclaimed. I felt as if I was going to burst. We were going to the theatre! I bounded into my room and pulled open my closet. My smile vanished. None of my dull, hand-me-down dresses and skirts were good enough to wear to such a regal place!

Camilla
Of course I knew she wouldn’t have a dress. I wouldn’t be a fit mother if I didn’t provide one, however.
“Celia, patience is key. I will find one for you before supper, “ I responded to her worries. 
“Thank you, Mother.” Celia’s skirt swished as she curtsied and skipped out of the room excitedly. I couldn’t help smiling a sad smile as she turned the corner. I longed to run after her, sweep her into the biggest hug I could muster, and confess my undying love for her as I were in a melodramatic film, but I couldn’t.
Sighing, I examined my collection. Amidst old, gray dresses, one pale pink dress stood out. Its white lace layers folded to create pristine elegance. Long sleeves ruffled at the wrists and a turtleneck completed the look. It was beautiful. It was my mother’s. I couldn’t stop the tears that came after as I slouched down, throwing my arms and calloused hands down onto the rough wool on my unsympathetic bed. No one cared. No one knew.

Celia
It was finally time to leave! The dress had fit perfectly, and the bodice Mother had lent me made me feel overwhelmingly mature and sophisticated. The pearls, oh, the pearls. The one string was all I needed. I could feel the imprint of the thirty pearls weeks after. Mother had put them on me, her hand slowly brushing past the smooth skin of the top of my neck and my sleek hair. She pulled away suddenly, briskly walked out of the room and called, “Hurry outside posthaste; we don’t want to be late.” I detected a slight strain in her voice but shook it off; I was too excited.
Outside, stars twinkled, only clouded by my misty breath. It was so beautiful, I had to stare. Had I paused a moment longer, I would have missed the carriage pulled by thoroughbred mares clatter by, the handsome postillion calling, “Good evening ladies,” with a tip of his hat. It was already the perfect evening. At least I had thought…

Camilla
I recognized the polished wood, the smell of cigars, and the lively jumble of laughter. Porters giddily instructed people to their tattered seats with a lively commotion.
Everything was painfully familiar. My mother had taken me there every Sunday, until the massacre had begun. Well, at least in my mind it was a massacre. We were so close. But that fatal Sunday left me so alone.

Celia
Mother led us to a row right in the middle of the theatre. She sat gingerly into a seat as she gently traced the armrests almost lovingly. I sat in a seat next to her into a cushion with a faded brown stain. At the sight of it Mother quickly averted her eyes and stared straight ahead.  Why?

Camilla
The stain. It was my only clue. Until I saw the flask.

Celia
The lights dimmed. It was about to begin! The precursor to the show was a figure with an outrageous postiche that made everyone laugh. Well, everyone except Mother.

Camilla
Her absurd wig of hair had housed the metal vial. I had seen it out. I had asked. She had hit. That theatre brought back the memory and I had to escape again.

Celia
Mother shoved past me, breathing hard. I followed her out of the theatre and into the brisk night air. She sat down on a metal bench and sobbed. I hurried over and sat next to her without a word, shivering while I waited. After a minute, she wiped her eyes and sat deep in thought for a moment. Then she began, “My mother was an alcoholic. She wasn’t always, however. She was so carefree, always playing games, and I could always be certain of the twinkle in her eye. But then the twinkle disappeared and she started staying out later. At our last trip to the theatre, I saw that she had become a fraud. The only reason why she was so bubbly with me that time was because she had a drink in her postiche. I was disgusted and my heart was in shambles. I ran away, never looking back. Two years later at the orphanage I resided in, I got a call. My mother was dead. Her heart had stopped.” Mother paused. “Celia, I don’t want this to happen to you. I don’t trust myself enough to not turn out like her. I don’t want to get so close to you that I will hurt you if I pull away. I love you too much.” She bowed her head, waiting for my response.

Camilla
“You would never do something like that. You are different. I put all my faith in you every day and you have never disappointed.” Her voice had echoed through my head. Even if I didn’t, my daughter definitely deserved my tenderness and appreciation. I wrapped my arms around her as rain gently drizzled onto our intertwined forms. It was a new beginning.