Free The Lights Go On Again by Kit Pearson

kept all the letters in order, packed neatly into a wooden box Aunt Mary had given her. It took Gavin all day to read them. “What are you up to, all by yourself?” asked Aunt Florence when he went downstairs for a snack.
    â€œOh … just a special project.” She smiled and didn’t press further. That was one thing he’d always appreciated about Aunt Florence. Despite her constant shower of affection, she always respected his privacy.
    The letters portrayed two people bravely struggling from day to day in war-torn England. Both his parents were extremely busy. Mum spent mornings at the Women’s Voluntary Services and afternoons waiting in lines for food as rationing got worse. Dad worked all day as a bookkeeper in Gilden, the town near their village, and every evening at his Home Guard duties. But in between the hardships—and as he read Gavin sensed that there was a lot left out besides the sentences that had been blackened by the censor—his parents seemed to have had a lot of fun. There were dances that the American GIs put on in the village hall. Fetes to raise money, a community pig to feed. Marriages—including Muriel’s—and other celebrations. Everyone in Ringden seemed to know each other and help each other get through the war.
    Mum and Dad had taken turns to write. Every letter said how much they missed Norah and Gavin and looked forward to having them back.
    They seemed like nice people to have as parents. He would have liked to know them. Now he never would. Now he was an orphan —like Oliver Twist. That felt important.
    Reading the letters was like seeing a movie of the years he’d been in Canada. Each one commented on something Norah and Gavin had told their parents. “Congratulations on learning to swim, Gavin! … By the time you get this you will be back from your trip across Canada and enjoying Gairloch again … How exciting that you’ve begun skiing …”
    Every time Gavin read words like this he remembered the thrill of learning to swim and ski, the exciting train journey west and every blissful summer at Gairloch. After he finished reading the letters he did have a clearer idea of what his parents had been like. But he was also left with a far stronger sense of what good years he’d enjoyed in Canada.
    That evening he returned everything to Norah. “Did it help you remember them?” she asked, gazing sadly at the photographs.
    â€œNot really,” Gavin admitted. “But now I know them better.” It was the best he could offer her.
    T HE SOCIAL WORKER came to see Norah and Gavin. She suggested that they both talk to a psychiatrist—“to sort out your feelings about this tragedy.” One afternoon they got to miss school while Aunt Florence took them to the university on the streetcar.
    Gavin felt strange when they walked past the green space in front of an old stone building called Hart House. He vaguely remembered playing games on this grass the week they had stayed at the university until they’d gone to live with the Ogilvies. It seemed like centuries ago.
    They entered another old building. Gavin sat with Aunt Florence in a waiting room while Norah was led into an office and a door closed. Gavin swung his legs and tried to read a babyish children’s book that was on a table. Aunt Florence stared into space, unusually vague.
    After a long time Norah came out, looking angry and proud. Then it was Gavin’s turn. A woman with a chirpy, brisk voice invited him to sit down on a slippery chair in front of her desk.
    Aunt Florence had told him that a psychiatrist was like a doctor who took care of your feelings instead of your body. “In my day we didn’t need to talk to strangers about our personal affairs,” she sniffed. “But they seem to think it will be helpful.”
    The woman—she told Gavin to call her Dr. Wilson—started by asking him to tell her about the