The Time I Ran Away from Home . . .

The time I ran away from home involved neither running nor actually being away from home. It wasn't for very long, either.

I was mad at something big. Most likely a perceived slight or a less than perfect manifestation of motherly love. Whatever it was, I ran into my room, packed my suitcase, and stormed through the kitchen, past her bewilderment and the smirking of my brother, and right out of the house.

The door I chose had the benefit of being made of metal. Slamming it made a final sound...