Saturday evening, 22 August 1942
Whenever I think I couldn't possibly hate my mother more, she always finds a way to surprise me. I think it's worst, actually, when she tries to be nice. When she's soft and kind and gentle for a few days, when you've just come home from school or being away, and she wants you to trust her, and the part of you that wishes you had a real mum wakes up and you start to believe that maybe this once she won't change back, won't stab you in the back with her blade of ice and let the point break off in your heart.
No wonder my brother would rather live with the sheep.