Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary

secret thoughts were hidden, she had never really doubted her mother’s love for her. Not until now. . . . She thought of all the things her mother had done for her, the way she had sat up most of the night when Ramona had an earache, the birthday cake she had made in the shape of a cowboy boot all frosted with chocolate with lines of white icing that looked like stitching. That was the year she was four and had wanted cowboy boots more than anything, and her parents had given her real ones as well. She thought of the way her mother reminded her to brush her teeth. Her mother would not do that unless she cared about her teeth, would she? She thought of the time her mother let her get her hair cut at the beauty school, even though they had to scrimp and pinch. She thought of the gentle books about bears and bunnies her mother had read at bedtime when she was little.
    â€œThere.” Mrs. Quimby closed the suitcase, snapped the latches, and set it on the floor. “Now you are all packed.” She sat down on the bed.
    Ramona pulled her car coat out of the closet and slowly put it on, one arm and then the other. She looked at her mother with sad eyes as she grasped the handle of her suitcase and lifted. The suitcase would not budge. Ramona grasped it with both hands. Still she could not lift it.
    Hope flowed into Ramona’s heart. Had her mother made the suitcase too heavy on purpose? She looked closely at her mother, who was watching her. She saw—didn’t she?—a tiny smile in her mother’s eyes.
    â€œYou tricked me!” cried Ramona. “You made the suitcase too heavy on purpose. You don’t want me to run away!”
    â€œI couldn’t get along without my Ramona,” said Ramona’s mother. She held out her arms. Ramona ran into them. Her mother had said the words she had longed to hear. Her mother could not get along without her. She felt warm and safe and comforted and oh, how good her mother smelled, so clean and sweet like flowers. Better than any mother in the whole world. Ramona’s tears dampened her mother’s blouse. After a moment Mrs. Quimby handed Ramona a Kleenex. When Ramona had wiped her eyes and nose, she was surprised to discover that her mother had tears in her eyes, too.
    â€œMama,” said Ramona, using a word she had given up as babyish, “why did you do that?”
    â€œBecause I could see I couldn’t get anyplace arguing with you,” answered her mother. “You wouldn’t listen.”
    The truth made Ramona uncomfortable. “Why did Mrs. Rudge phone?” she asked, to change the subject.

    Mrs. Quimby looked concerned. “She called to say that she had noticed you twitching your nose a lot—Daddy and I have noticed it, too—and she wondered if something was making you nervous. She wondered if you perhaps needed a shorter day in school.”
    And a longer day with Howie’s grandmother? What a terrible idea. “School is easy,” said Ramona, not mentioning spelling, which, after all, might be easy if she paid more attention to it.
    â€œHave you any idea what makes you twitch your nose?” asked Mrs. Quimby gently. “I noticed you twitch it three times during breakfast.”
    Ramona was surprised. Maybe she had twitched so much she could twitch without knowing it. “Of course I know why,” she said. “I was pretending I was a rabbit, a baby rabbit, because you call me a little rabbit sometimes.”
    This time Ramona did not mind when her mother laughed. She laughed a bit, too, to show that she now thought pretending to be a baby rabbit seemed silly, as if it were something she had done a long time ago when she was little.
    â€œRabbits are nice,” said Mrs. Quimby, “but I prefer a little girl. My little girl.”
    â€œReally?” said Ramona, even though she knew her mother spoke the truth.
    â€œI am glad to know you were a little rabbit,” said