//------------------------------//
// Scene 3 
// Story: Mothers and Daughters 
// by Rekter 
//------------------------------//

	She returns from her paper-delivery route and finds some Hearth’s Warming Eve presents arranged out on the table in the kitchen. Without opening them she knocks them off with a single swoop of her hoof and knocks them to the ground, and lays her head on the table and within minutes falls asleep. She must have been consciously dramatizing her plight: Her mother was sick, bits were scarce, she had to work, to get food for the family, even though she was still a child. She mourned for the next Summer Sun Celebration which was the 937th when apples were at the lowest of prices. 

While in her dismissal of Hearth’s Warming Eve, she touched a nerve: her love for anarchy, her distrust of social contract. She treasured these moments of revolution; but why remember such bitter memories and confide to her daughter many Hearth’s Warming Eves later? She had a teaching instinct, though she would later claim that life she lived miscast her as a schoolteacher. 

I suffered in her classes, feeling the confusion as a persecution, but now wonder if her rebellious heart did not court confusion, not as the Crystal Imperials once did, as Sombra’s order, but, more radical still, as an end pleasurable in itself, as truth’s very body. Yet her handwriting, though one of an Earth Pony’s, is considered legible, and she was sitting up grading school work the morning of her death.