My great grandmother escaped to New Zealand from an abusive husband. A drunk. They were living in Ireland when she decided she couldn't take it anymore. It had to be a tricky, sneaky exit with her 13 children, trying to make it to that big boat on time, without the father's knowledge. They were at the end of the wharf when they saw him coming, my great grandmother pushing her children in front of her, climbing the plank to the ship. He was running, shouting, shaking with anger. But there on the wharf, lived a friendly, slippery patch of wood. Or maybe it was nothing at all. But he slipped, and broke his leg. And the family never looked back. Or they did, and cried.