First published here

Mom’s head tilted toward the sound from the living room. She peeked around the door from the kitchen and saw five-year-old Priscilla tip-toeing, nearly to the front door.

“Priscilla, where are you going?”

“Away. I’m running away.”

“I see.” Mom walked into the brightly colored living room and sat on the sofa. “You weren’t going to tell me? That makes me sad.”

“Sorry.”

“So, where are you going?”

“Mimi’s. She loves me. She’s not mean to me.”

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