All that running away reminded me...
When I was very small, younger than school age, I ran away regularly. Somebody would hurt my feelings and I would pack my small plaid plastic suitcase with God-knows-what and set off up the dirt road. Sometimes I slammed the screen door and sometimes I left quietly, perhaps with a sad little sigh. My mother always came after and caught up with me, hunkered down and talked me out of my snit. And we would walk home again. And then one day she didn't.
I couldn't believe it.
I reached the shade on the summer dirt road, halfway up the hill . . . and she wasn't behind me. She was nowhere in sight.
I sat down on a stone wall and waited, to give her adequate opportunity to come and make up for whatever had gone wrong in my world.
It seemed like an hour. It probably was ten minutes.
She didn't come.
I had no place to go. It was a long trip back down the hill, my little shoulders drooping down under the weight of the knowledge that not only did they hurt my feelings, but they didn't care if I stayed or went.
I think that was the end of my running away.