Life became routine for a while. I went to school, did my chores as Edith bade me, just as my mother insisted I should in her letters. Her notes to me arrived every few days. My father wrote less often, and shorter letters, but I was glad to hear from both of them.

In the den, Edith and I listened to the radio each night, hanging on every word of the BBC News report. George was in the Royal Air Force, and she was worried to death about him, though she tried quite hard to hide it.

In May of 1940, Germany launched its offensive to the west. They took the Low Countries first. The Netherlands and Belgium fell quickly, providing the German army a route around the Maginot Line. They broke through in the Ardennes, separating the French and British armies. I knew my father had been deployed, but I didn’t know where. I went cold when I heard that the Third Infantry had been one of the divisions evacuated at Dunkirk.

A letter arrived from my father two weeks later. I cried in my room that night—because he was alive. Somewhere deep inside, I had convinced myself that he was dead, and that I was okay with it.

Four months later, in early September, a year after I left London, the Luftwaffe began their air raids on the city. Starting on September 7th of 1940, they bombed London 56 out of the following 57 days. The attacks were relentless. And deadly. The bombings killed over forty thousand people, injured at least forty thousand more, and destroyed over a million homes. My mother was in one of those homes, and she was one of the forty thousand who lost her life.

I had been so concerned about my father’s safety that her death caught me completely by surprise. I was filled with both hatred and sadness. At only six years old, the emotions overwhelmed me. I worried for my father, and then I tried not to care. But that was a lie I told myself.

On D-Day, the Third Infantry was the first to land at Sword Beach as part of the invasion of Normandy. I feared the worst when I heard that, but a letter arrived from my father three weeks later. Those letters continued to come for six months. I was hopeful. That was my mistake. The news that he had been killed in December destroyed whatever was left of my young heart. I was officially an orphan.

George returned home the following month. He had lost a leg and the better part of an arm, and the physical wounds were only half of his struggle. I helped Edith as best I could, but like me, she was overwhelmed.

I knew what was coming next, and I didn’t blame her.