The Open Door
Like a mouse, I slipped into the living room, quiet as breath, hoping—as always—not to be seen.
“Close the door, you bastard. You’re letting the heat out.” My father jabbed a finger toward the coal fire in the grate, its embers smoldering.
A brown leather shoe flashed past my head and struck the door with a hard, echoing thud.
I retreated at once, pulled the door shut with care, and climbed the narrow stairs to the bathroom at the end of the short corridor.
My sanctuary—the only room in the house with a lock.
But it was too late, and far too cold, to risk escaping into the dark of a Belfast winter night.