Winnifred and George Barnes, or as they preferred to be called, Mama and Pops, were great people. They really were. But even great people make mistakes from time to time.

When they took me in, I could tell how hard it was on them. They wanted me to be someone I wasn't, and for me to go out and play with the other kids. To be like them. But ever since I had lost them all in the war, I knew I would just be endangering them. This was to protect them, not me. At least, that's what I told myself.

Winnifred was a great mother. She was firm when needed because every child needs a firm hand every once in a while, even those scorned by war. But, when it was not needed, she could be quite gentle and tried to understand what I was going through.

George was a great father. He taught me lots of things. Most were how to be a good soldier since that was all he knew. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks at a time for training on a military base somewhere far away. Just another sign that we couldn't escape war even if we wanted, because deep down we crave it.

For the first year, all was good. That was before mama died. I had finally gotten used to calling her 'mama' that it made her death all that much worse. Pop's way of grieving didn't involve comforting me, but that was fine. I probably just would have pushed him away anyway. Just like everyone else.

It hurt more than it should have, but maybe that was because it was slow. She had come down with pneumonia, and I remember her death and the weeks before quite clearly.

First came the cough.

The doctors had assumed it was just a cold. It was February after all. They said she would be fine as long as she rested for a few days. But they were wrong.

Next came the fever.

After a few days, she had only gotten worse. We made the mistake of assuming she only needed more rest. Maybe then the shivering and sweating would stop.

After that, she had trouble breathing.

She could barely do the household chores anymore, so that fell on me. Pop would still leave for periods of time, but they were shorter now. He didn't want to leave either of us behind for too long.

Then came the pain.

I remember her groans as she breathed. She said it got worse when she coughed, but coughing was practically all she did anymore. I wasn't allowed in the room anymore. She had made sure of that. Once Pop got back from another work trip, he would call the doctor.

Soon, she stopped eating.

The doctor told us to make sure she got enough food, but she refused. She never really ate after that.

Eventually came nausea.

The last time the doctor came, Mama was in the bathroom, throwing up her latest meal. It was too late. I remember seeing it in his face before he even told us. There was nothing they could do to help her now.

Lastly, the confusion.

Since her cough had died down a bit, I was allowed in to see her. She was still at home, and I was sleeping on the floor while Pop slept on my bed. Whenever he was there, at least. When I did go see her, she seemed disoriented. Not knowing where she was, what was happening, or even, sometimes, who I was.

The last time I saw her, I witnessed her death. She had placed a hand on my cheek and said something I wasn't expecting.

'Bucky, protect Percy. She needs a guardian angel right about now.'

And maybe he became my guardian angel. Maybe he was the only reason I made it through the rest of my hellish life. But I doubt it.