It's been fifteen years since I saw my mother. She left during a storm, her tattered black suitcase trudging behind her, bouncing over the uneven cobblestone walkway. She wore a black dress and heels even through the rain; she said that women 'should always look dignified'. Her lips had been drawn into a tight line, her forehead creasing with worry as she kissed me goodbye, telling me to be a good girl and to stay out of trouble.
     After she was gone, I retreated to my bedroom, burying my face into the feather blankets and crying until I thought my eyes would be permenantly stained red. I knew then that she wouldn't be coming home, no matter how long I prayed. She had told me over numerous occasions that Daddy would drive her to the end. I was seven then and hadn't the slightest idea what this meant, but watching her leave, I knew it was the reason.
     Her name was Catherine, spelled old fashioned, the way my great-grandmother's name was. She had given birth to me eleven months after marrying Daddy; she was twenty-one then. She ran away with him since her parents did not approve. She would tell me the story while fumbling with her wedding band, spinning the golden trinket thoughtlessly on her finger. I should have realized sooner that she was notorious for running away.
     Catherine had left me in possession of her jewelry box. I found it three days after her departure, stashed under my mattress with a note inside, reading:
          "I trust you to take good care of these. Please treasure them forever;
          they may be the only things you'll have to remember me by other than your
          memories. -Mother"
     The cherry wood box held thirteen brooches, all sparkling in the dim light, jewels that ranged from rubies and emeralds to many sized carats of diamonds. The long strand of oyster biege pearls was my favorite; about twelve inches long, it draped around my neck three times, coils of elegance at my throat. It had been mother's favorite. I wore them in my wedding- like her, I was at the age of twenty-one.
     I tried to search for her, for years searching through massive amounts of strangers, looking for the one who left me all alone. It was a short time later that I heard news of her death, a small obituary taken out in a county newspaper. She had remarried, a French man named David; a stepfather I would never meet. She was probably happy during that time, sipping champagne all day in an apartment near Paris. I would never truly know.
     I would cherish these pearls forever.