We've meant to take the kids to Anne Frank's house for years. Somehow, when there were three of them at home, and therefore three lots of out of school activities to schedule in a weekend/it just seemed too complicated. But with just the little one left at home, why not? (Although I am now officially a bad mother since missing the last lesson of the week - PE - to catch the plane is some sort of educational crime and I'm now on a list).I had thought it would be the action of pushing past the book case, maybe seeing just how small the annexe was, hearing their friends' testimony of the last days in Auschwitz that would be the hardest or at least the most moving aspects. But no, it was the littlest thing -the pencil lines on the door frame -something most families have somewhere in theirhouse, marks recording the heights of children who were never going to grow up, that made me stop and think.
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