Cold Cow’s Milk

School days continued to be hard for me, even after we’d been in England for five months. I was too afraid to tell my parents how I felt. Each day I sat alone and tried to talk to the other children, only for them to walk away without including me in their groups.

On one wet morning, when the school grounds were waterlogged, we had indoor play. Morning play meant milk bottles. I looked forward to the cold, creamy milk in glass bottles with paper straws. Milk had never tasted as good as this before; it was different from the milk in cartons on the ships, which always had a papery taste. Early in the day, a man would bring the blue plastic crates into the classroom, and I’d gaze at them longingly, hoping to be the first to grab a bottle at playtime.