Hiding amidst the fuchsias (late 1960s/early 1970s)

This is one of my most vivid recurring memories. It is also one of my earliest. I don't really know how old I was, old enough to ride a bike with training wheels, at least. My dad must have been away for work, because he doesn't figure at all. My mom was at work or away for the day and Andrés and I were being cared for by the neighbor up the street with the ouchy door. (It was all rough, with sharp bumps, and their doorbell didn't work, so you had to knock. I hated that!)

I had borrowed one of her kids' bike (with training wheels, I'm pretty sure) and was riding around on the sidewalk by myself. Everyone else had gone inside. When I was done, and as I was lugging the bike up the stairs to the front porch, I knocked over a potted plant that was sitting on one of the steps and it fell onto the ground, breaking the pot. I got really scared and left the bike on the porch (I think) and ran home. Everybody was out, of course, but I guess I just felt safer there. So I went along the path round the side of the house, which was bordered by lots of fuchsia plants and sort of hid and waited.

My mother doesn't remember this at all. I've never asked Andrés, maybe I should. I don't know what happened after this, whether I waited until my mom came home or if the neighbor came looking for me. It's such a powerful memory, I can remember exactly what it was like to feel so afraid and helpless and not know what to do.