I found my secret den right at the start of the summer holidays. Our back garden is wild, overgrown with trees and shrubs. I was searching for my ball when I came across it.
It was large enough to sit comfortably in, yet completely hidden from everywhere. There was enough light to read by but the rain never penetrated.
I would sneak into it each morning and spend hours there, safely tucked away from my older brothers and their friends. Away from their noise, their teasing, their rough and tumble games. All I needed was a bottle of Coke, half a pack of biscuits and my books.
Until today, when I found our little sister Heather crying over a headless doll. I stuck the head back on but she didn’t look good. Her neck had vanished and she was grotesque. I took Heather to my secret place to cheer her up.
This evening she broke out in a nasty rash. She told Mom that she had been stung by something in my den.
Mom declared it off limits, permanently. Where is the justice in that? I don’t have a rash. Grown ups never play fair.