I can still feel the flat of his hand between my shoulders blades. He gives me a little shove and I stumble forward over the threshold. He shuts the door and there I am, homeless.I don’t know how old I am. Old enough to worry about where I will live, about my lost possessions and lost love. Not old enough to realise that parental rows are not always final. Hearing my mother screaming for help I’ve come downstairs to be peremptorily tipped out of the house alongside her.
My yoga teacher tells us, not for the first time, that we should let go and give up our desire for control. But something in me swore that day that I’d never be in the position where someone else could take everything from me. I look at the news and see girls ripped from their schools for whom later life is unlikely to mean secure job and own home and I can’t help thinking we need more control, not less.