The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

away. Doesn’t seem to me that the war’s properly started yet.”
“Mam’ll send for us,” I said. “All the other evacuees are leaving.”
Fred scratched behind his ear. “Well, we’ll hope not, won’t we? Don’t
know what I’d do without you, I don’t.” He grinned at me, and to my surprise
I grinned in return.
I knew I couldn’t really stay. The good things here—not being shut up in the
one room, for starters, and then Butter, and my crutches, and being warm
even when it was cold outside. Clean clothes. Nightly baths. Three meals a
day. That cup of Bovril before bedtime. The ocean seen from the top of the
hill—all of these things, they were just temporary. Just until Mam came for
us. I didn’t dare get too used to them.
I tried to think of good things about home. I remembered Mam bringing
home fish-’n’-chips on Friday nights, crisp and hot and wrapped in
newspaper. I remembered that sometimes Mam sang, and laughed, and once
even danced Jamie around the table. I remembered how when Jamie was little
he spent his days inside with me. I remembered the crack on the ceiling that
looked like a man in a pointed hat.
And even if it felt like Mam hated me, she had to love me, didn’t she? She
had to love me, because she was my mam, and Susan was just somebody who
got stuck taking care of Jamie and me because of the war. She still said so
sometimes. “I didn’t ask for evacuees,” she said, when Bovril puked mouse
guts on the living room rug. “I don’t need this,” she said, shaking her head,
when Jamie came home with his sweater ripped, smeared in dirt from head to
toe. “I never wanted children,” she said, when Butter shied at a pheasant and
dumped me in the road, and ran home with my crutches tied to the saddle.
Susan came out to find me, muttering, crutches in hand, and when she saw me
she scowled and said it was a mercy I wasn’t killed. “I never wanted
children.”
“I never wanted you,” I said.
“I can’t imagine why not,” she said, snorting. “I’m so loving and kind.”
The wind had come up sharp and it was nearly full dark. I was shivering.
When we got home Susan draped a blanket around my shoulders. “Make us
some tea,” she said. “I’ll put up the wretched pony.” She squared her
shoulders and stalked into the night, and I watched her go, and wanted Mam.
I wanted Mam to be like Susan.
I didn’t really trust Susan not to be like Mam.