I was eight years old and mad as heck. The reason for that escapes me now, but back then, it was imperative in my young mind that I had to leave my home and take care of myself, by myself.
“Mother, I’m going to leave and will never come back.” I said with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Okay, I’ll pack a lunch for you,” my Mother said.
I took the lunch pail, my dog Fluffy and walked down the alley to the street. I sat down on the curb and ate green grapes.
I talked to Fluffy, who sat by, faithful as always.
My lunch pail was empty.
I walked back home.
I didn’t exchange words with my mother.
That’s the end of the story.