Haven't we all gone through that phase, screaming I hate you to one or both parents, even going so far as encircling their throats with both hands before running out of the room? I was seven when I packed a hanky, a toothbrush and comb into a brown paper bag, frightened and at the same time hurt; enraged at the daily quarrels they staged, not caring who heard. They were completely enamored with each other: my grandmother and the not good enough daughter-in-law she detested, my father an only son caught between two women he was trying to please; my mother the dark spit- fire they were always threatening to put out. Around and around they went, one holding aloft a coffeepot fresh from the stove, one clutching a plate to deflect. I didn't want to have anything more to do with them then. But someone caught up with me at the end of the street, soothed me back home. Years later, sometimes it still feels like I haven't left. I'm still listening to sounds of anguish coming from the other side of the door. Heart pounding, clutching meagre provisions to my chest.