When I was about eight years old, I decided to run away from home. I'd suffered some great injustice at the hands of my mother and felt I had no other choice but to leave the Frazier family far behind. I don't remember what it was that caused me to start packing my bags, but it the straw that broke this little 8-year-old camel's back. I was outta there!
I sulked and plotted and devised a completely ingenious plan to just walk away and start a new life. Maybe a family with no children who really wanted a smart-ass little 8-year-old girl. (Yeah, right.) Throughout the afternoon, I flounced in to announce my plans to Mother so that she could start being real sorry even before I left. Being a natural-born drama queen, I could do no less.
After gathering my meager but necessary belongings, I was set to bid adieu to hearth and home. I could do so much better, right? And anyway, Mother obviously had it in for me. I needed to find a new mother who would appreciate me and my creative little ways. Yep. I was ready to go.
Mother was washing dishes when I lugged my sack - yes, it was a sack, not a suitcase - of assorted life possessions into the kitchen. The moment was fraught with emotion.
"Well, I'm going now," I announced in my best, kid-full-of-confidence voice.
Mother - who'd put up my tirade all afternoon - turned to look at me with big sad eyes, took the slightest pause, then said, "Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?'
Well, that did it. Kid-confidence turned to kid-puddle-o'-tears as I dropped my sack of belongings. Mother wiped the water and suds off her hands and bent down to give me a hug.
"Welcome home." And I was back in the fold.