Everyone dreams of finding a secret door - an escape hatch. I found mine when the arguments started. My two older sisters were forever fighting, leaving me shaking, huddled in a corner of our shared bedroom as missiles flew; Barbie dolls (theirs), pillows (whoever’s was closest at hand), books (mine) - whatever was available. Large and athletic they were forever in competition with each other. Small and weedy, I flew beneath their radar, if not their missiles.
The day I was smacked on the cheek by the corner of my favourite book I stumbled, fell and hit my head on the wall.
I wasn’t knocked out. I could still see my sisters chucking all and sundry at each other as I slid down the wall. Their shrieks muffled as, inside my head, there was a flash of light as a door opened.
‘Come and play with us.’ The characters from my book beckoned me. I closed my eyes as the door grew big enough for me to enter.
As an adult I can open it at the first sign of conflict - and no one knows about it. My escape hatch is a secret never to be revealed; not even to my psychiatrist.
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