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December 1, 1773 Dear Diary, I’ve been in need of a companion of all ears. I just found you a day ago when cleaning my quarters. You’ve got a lot to catch up on... My father, James Van Allen, just past about three years ago in the Boston Massacre. I don’t wish to speak of that though, it’s still a touchy subject especially for mum. In point of fact, she’s lost so much of my respect I may start calling her by her name, Florence. I like the sound of that. If my boyfriend weren’t so busy I wouldn’t have given a second thought about writing in you. Good gracious how I miss my dear William. Guess you’re the only one I can correspond with anymore. Florence is always so busy sitting in front of the fire writing letters she never sends out. What a waste of a life. I hate to say it but the truth is she’s a terrible mother, and she won’t approve of Will - that’s what I call William - just because he’s a patriot and “we” are loyalists. Little does she know I too am a patriot and I so hate Tories. Oh goodness me! Florence is coming! I will no longer be of absence, you were a great help. Just what I need. Sincerely, Adriana Van Allan I nk blots and tear drops drip on the parchment. “I don’t know what to do anymore... the massacre and the towns peoples reactions have put me and Adrianna in great peril … And she has been acting strange... I need to keep a close eye on her … And ever since you’ve died I’ve been rationing all our food, which is not that much. God help us.” I crumpled up the parchment in rage and cast it into the fire. My body goes limp and I fall to my knees and pray for him-I concentrate so hard and squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating that somehow he can hear me. I hear the door squeak open, I rouse as fast as a Robin out of reflex. I wipe away my tears and plant my feet firmly on the ground and brush my hair down with my hands. I ask in an assertive voice “Adriana is that you?” I wait. I decide to go cautiously to the door and find that a letter went through the mail slot addressed to … Adriana?! There’s a point in all mothers lives where they need to invade their little ones’ privacy. I take the letter and open it with my antique letter opener that once belonged to my father. I read it, my eyes grasping every word and comprehending what my own daughter has been doing in her seclusion. Defiance. I have nothing else to say. My daughter … her father would’ve seen her as I have seen her growing up: a swine! Oh how she would hate me if I’ve been snooping around her “personal life” as she has told me in previous years. “Mom? Good God?! Are you trailing me?!” I’m just a maid in this family-
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