When I was a kid (about ages 4 through far too old) I firmly believed there were secret passages in my house.
The living room of the house I grew up in was the heart of the home in terms of flow; access to the front door, staircase, dining room and kitchen. If you wanted a central location from which to
spy observe the goings on of the household – the living room was your spot.
I would sit there and watch my mom bring the laundry upstairs. Moments later I’d hear her making lunch in the kitchen. Wha??
I would sit there and watch my dad go outside to mow the lawn. Moments later he’d come down the stairs wearing a different t-shirt. Wait a sec!!
I was convinced there was a secret passage in the house and I committed myself to finding it. I put my ear to the walls, I banged on studs, I pulled books off shelves, I stomped on floors, and I poked ceilings with broom handles. Years of house inspection and still…no joy. My parents defiantly continued to weave their way around the house without a fig for physics or occupying proper space/time continuums.
I confronted my father. “Is there a secret passage in this house?”
He responded coyly, “Maaaaybe.”
I cornered my mother. “Where is the secret passage??”
She rolled her eyes. “Meg, have you ever considered that maybe you’re just not paying attention? I walked past you about 6 times today and you didn’t even blink.”
She left me standing there with my mouth open. Shocked.
My own mother. Covering up something as important as a secret passage. So disappointing!