How did your father treat women? My father made all the women in our house ask permission for every action because he said men were born with authority and women were born to obey. It started when I was 10 after mom answered the phone without asking. Dad slammed her against the wall and announced new rules that every woman needed his approval for everything.
My older brother Tracy watched from the couch, still playing his video game. That first night, I reached for my fork at dinner and dad grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. Did you ask? He demanded. I had to request permission to eat while Tracy helped himself to seconds without a word. My younger brother Ryan actually laughed when mom had to ask to stand up from the table.
The rules expanded daily, but only for us. We needed permission to use the bathroom, get dressed, or speak when spoken to. My brothers came and went freely, ate when hungry, and talked whenever they wanted. Tracy would walk to the fridge and grab whatever he wanted while I stood there for 20 minutes begging for a glass of water.
Ryan learned to exploit it fast and would eat cookies in front of me while I waited for dad to approve my request for one crack. “Girls don’t need much food anyway,” Dad would say. Denying most requests while telling my brothers they needed to bulk up. I couldn’t even function normally at school because I knew my brothers would record everything I did back to dad.
When I used the bathroom during math class, Ryan saw me in the hallway. That night, Dad made me stand in the corner for 6 hours with my arms above my head while my brothers played Xbox on the couch. Every time my arms dropped, he added another hour. Tracy actually paused his game to watch me struggle. This is what happens to women who forget their place.
Dad told him, “Remember this when you have a wife? Mom tried getting help during an approved grocery trip, but dad had poisoned the whole town against us. When the cashier handed dad the note she had slipped him, he shaved mom’s head that night as punishment. My brother sat at the kitchen table doing homework while dad ran the clippers over her scalp.
Your mom thought she could make decisions without me. he explained to them. But women’s brains aren’t built for thinking. Ryan asked if he could help shave her and dad actually let him do the back of her head. My sister climbed out her window one night, but alarms went off. Dad dragged her back and locked her in the basement for 3 days with no food.
During those three days, he made me and mom serve elaborate meals to my brothers, explaining this was our natural purpose. Tracy started calling us the servants and dad never corrected him. Ryan would deliberately make messes for us to clean without permission, then report us for unauthorized movement. The punishments got creative and my brothers often helped decide them.
Speaking without permission meant duct tape over our mouths for days. Tracy suggested the oven mitts taped to my hands when I scratched without asking. For a week, I couldn’t do anything myself and had to beg dad or my brothers to feed me. Ryan thought it was hilarious to pretend he couldn’t hear my requests.
Even Tracy started looking uncomfortable when I cried from hunger, but he never spoke up. My younger brother became dad’s enforcer, monitoring us for violations and reporting everything. He’d document when mom’s hands shook without permission or when my sister blinked too many times. Dad paid him $5 for every infraction he caught.
Ryan bought video games with the money he earned from our suffering. Tracy at least had the decency to avoid eye contact during punishments. But Ryan would pull up a chair to watch. I tried faking sick once to get to a hospital and ask for help there. Dad tested if I was faking by holding a letter to my arm while my brothers watched, saying if I was really sick, I’d be too weak to react.
Good lesson for you boys, he said as my skin burned. Women lie about pain for attention. Tracy left the room, but Ryan stayed fascinated. Later, dad gave him his own lighter to test us whenever he suspected we were fake. Then came the shot collars that delivered pain for unauthorized actions. Dad gave both my brothers controller apps on their phones. You’re men now, he told them.
Time to learn how to manage women. Tracy deleted the app after using it once and seeing my sister convulse. But Ryan kept his shocking us for fun when dad wasn’t even around. He’d wait until we were carrying something heavy then shock us to watch us drop. Then Ryan was bragging to his friend about our shot callers and the friend got uncomfortable.
The friend’s mom called our house asking questions. Dad was furious we’d been disgusted with outsiders and blamed us for Ryan’s loose lips. As punishment, he announced we’d be moving to the basement permanently. My brothers would keep our bedrooms while we moved into what he’d been building down there.
He sent me down to see our new accommodations. Three small cages bolted to feeding tubes and waste systems meant no more asking permission when we couldn’t move at all. The electronic locks would arrive tomorrow. Ryan will be in charge of your feeding schedule, Dad. Good practice for when he has his own wife. My 12-year-old brother would control whether we lived or died.
I stared at the three metal cages bolted to the concrete floor while dad walked around them explaining the feeding schedule to Ryan. Each cage had a small door with a slot for the electronic lock and tubes running from the ceiling for water and food. My hands shook as I memorized every detail of the basement layout, counting the steps to the stairs and noting the small window near the ceiling.
Dad showed Ryan how the feeding system worked by pouring water into a funnel that connected to the tubes. Ryan asked if he could control how much food we got each day and dad said that was the whole point of teaching him responsibility. The cages were barely big enough to sit up in, and I could see scratch marks on the metal where someone had tested them.
Dad explained that the waist system meant we’d never need to leave the cages at all once the locks arrived tomorrow. Ryan practiced using the remote control dad had rigged up for testing, and the cage doors clicked open and shut. I watched Ryan’s face light up with excitement as dad let him hold the remote and test it again.
The basement felt colder than usual and I noticed mom and my sister hadn’t been brought down to see this yet. Dad told me to go back upstairs and help mom make dinner while he finished showing Ryan the setup. I climbed the stairs on shaking legs and found mom in the kitchen already pulling out pots and pans.
Tracy sat on the couch playing his video game and didn’t look up when I walked past. Mom’s hands trembled as she handed me vegetables to chop and I saw the bruises on her wrist from yesterday. We worked in silence while my brother’s game sounds filled the living room and dad’s voice carried up from the basement.
Mom caught my eye for just a second while we stirred the pasta and her lips moved silently to form one word. Tomorrow I understood immediately that she meant school was our only chance to get help before those locks trapped us forever. We served dinner and I watched Ryan describe the feeding schedule to Tracy with disturbing enthusiasm.
Tracy pushed his food around his plate and wouldn’t look at any of us while Ryan talked about portion control. Dad praised Ryan for understanding the importance of managing resources and said he’d make a good husband someday. That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and planning how to get a message to someone at the school.
Ryan slept in the bed across from mine with his phone on the nightstand and I could see the Shock collar app still glowing on the screen. Every few minutes he’d roll over and I’d freeze, terrified he’d wake up and catch me awake without permission. I thought about writing a note, but remembered what happened when mom tried that with the cashier.
The only way would be to tell someone directly at the school, but Ryan watched me constantly when we were there. I stayed awake until almost dawn trying to figure out how to get even 5 seconds alone with the teacher. Morning came too fast, and dad announced at breakfast that the lock installer would arrive at noon.
We had exactly 4 hours of school before we have to come home to our permanent prison. Tracy stared at his cereal and wouldn’t look at any of us while dad explained the timeline. Ryan kept checking his phone and showing dad pictures of different feeding schedules he found online for managing prisoners. Mom’s face stayed blank as she served us breakfast, but I saw her jaw clench when Ryan suggested a two meal system.
Dad drove us to the school himself instead of letting us take the bus and reminded Ryan to watch me care. The first period bell rang and I sat through math class with my stomach turning and my hands sweating. 20 minutes into class, I clutched my stomach and raised my hand to ask for the nurse. The teacher looked concerned and wrote me a hall pass while I bent over like I was in pain.
I folded the pass carefully and grabbed a pencil from my desk when no one was looking. The hallway was empty and I walked slowly toward the nurse’s office knowing I had maybe 30 seconds. I pressed the pencil hard against the back of the hall pass and wrote h e l p c a g- e s i n b a s e m e n t in shaky letters.
My hands trembled so badly I could barely form the words, but I pressed harder and kept writing. I heard footsteps and looked up to see Ryan coming around the corner watching me with narrow eyes. I slipped the pencil in my pocket and kept walking normally toward the nurse’s office trying not to panic.
Ryan followed at a distance and I knew he was making sure I didn’t talk to anyone in the hallway. The nurse’s office door was open and I walked in holding my stomach and handed her the pass face down. She flipped it over to read the teacher’s note and her eyes went wide when she saw my message on the back.
She looked at me then at Ryan standing in the doorway and told him firmly to go back to class immediately. Ryan hesitated but the nurse stood up and pointed down the hall with an authority that made him back away. She closed the door and locked it, then picked up her phone and called someone while gesturing for me to sit down.
Within minutes, she was walking me down the hall to the counselor’s office where Mr. Guthrie was already waiting. He read my note and looked at me with serious eyes, then started asking careful questions about what was happening at home. I couldn’t speak with Ryan, possibly listening outside, so I just nodded or shook my head to his questions. Mr.
Guthrie wrote down everything I was telling him through nods and glances while the nurse stood guard at the door. He picked up his phone and I heard him say, “Emergency and immediate danger to whoever was on the other line.” The nurse brought me water and held my hand while Mr. Guthrie made call after call to different people.
The nurse stayed with me for another hour while Mr. Guthrie kept making calls and writing things down on yellow paper. He looked up at me and said child services would come today, but I had to go home norm. My stomach hurt for real now, thinking about going back there, knowing what was waiting in the basement. The bell rang for lunch and Mr.
Guthri walked me to the cafeteria himself, telling me to act like nothing happened and that help was coming soon. I sat at my usual table and tried to eat my sandwich, but my hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold it. Ryan sat across from me and just stared without blinking while I pretended to be normal and took tiny bites.
Back in math class after lunch, Ryan moved his desk closer to mine and kept watching every move I made. The teacher was talking about fractions, but all I could think about was those cages and the clock on the wall that seemed to barely move at. Every minute felt like an hour, and I kept looking at the door, hoping someone would come get me, but nobody did.
Ryan tapped his pencil on his desk over and over like he was counting down to something, and I wanted to scream. The final bell rang, and my heart started pounding because I knew Dad would be waiting, and I was right. His truck was in the parking lot. instead of us taking the bus like normal and he looked mad. Ryan ran ahead and got in the front seat while Tracy climbed in the back looking at his phone.
I got in last and Dad said the locks came early from the hardware store. So, we were going straight to the basement to finish everything. My backpack was on the floor and I slowly reached down like I was fixing my shoe and grabbed a pen from the front pocket. I pushed it into my sock while Dad was watching the road and Ryan was playing with the radio.
The pen felt cold against my ankle, but I needed something to write with if I was going in those cages. Dad pulled into our driveway and told us all to get out and go straight downstairs because he had work to do. The basement smelled like metal and concrete and those three cages sat there waiting with their doors open like mouths.
Dad had a toolbox full of electronic arts and started pulling out wires and small black boxes that must be the locks. He made us all stand against the wall and watch while he drilled holes in the cage frames for the lock mechanisms. Tracy stood in the corner with his hands in his pockets and I saw him set his phone on the workbench when dad told him to hold the drill bits.
The drill was so loud it hurt my ears and mom stood next to me with her face completely blank like she wasn’t even there anymore. My sister was crying without making any sound and the tears just rolled down her face while dad worked. He attached the first lock to mom’s cage and pressed buttons on a small remote that made it click open and closed.
Ryan watched everything dad did and asked if he could try the remote but dad said not yet. The second lock went on my sister’s cage and dad tested it three times to make sure it worked perfect. He was almost done with my cage when we heard footsteps upstairs and then someone knocked on the front door. Dad stopped drilling and looked up at the ceiling like he was trying to figure out who it was.
The knocking got louder and someone rang the doorbell in a row which made dad put down his tools. He told Ryan to go answer it and say everyone was at work or school if they asked any questions. Ryan ran up the stairs and we could hear him talking to someone but couldn’t make out the words. Dad picked up his drill again but kept looking at the stairs every few seconds waiting for Ryan to come back.
We heard the front door closed and Ryan’s footsteps coming back down to the basement looking excited. He said someone from child services was at the door asking about us but he told them to come back later because nobody was home. Dad smiled and pulled a $20 bill from his wallet and gave it to Ryan for doing such a good job.
He said we needed to work faster now and pointed at the cages with the remote in his hand. Mom looked at me and I saw her mouth a word no. But dad was already pushing her toward the first cage. She got on her hands and knees and crawled inside while dad watched to make sure she went all the way to the back.
The cage was so small she couldn’t sit up straight and had to stay bent over with her head down. My dad pressed the button and the electronic lock clicked shut with a sound that made my whole body go cold. My sister was next and she was shaking so bad she could barely crawl. But dad grabbed her arm and helped her into the second cage.
She curled up in a ball as small as she could make herself and covered her face with her hands. The lock clicked and now it was my turn to crawl into the last cage that would be my new home. I got down on my knees and started crawling toward the metal opening, feeling the pen and my saw pressing against my skin. The cage floor was cold metal bars that hurt my knees and hands as I moved to the back where the feeding tube hung down.
Dad pressed the button and the lock clicked shut and I was trapped inside with no way out unless someone had that remote. Ryan sat on the bottom step and watched us in our cages like we were animals at the zoo. Tracy stayed in the corner and wouldn’t look at any of us, but I saw him glance at his phone on the workbench.
Dad started explaining how the feeding system worked and connected plastic tubes to each cage that would let them control when we ate or drank. Ryan asked if he could be in charge of feeding us and dad said that was a great idea for him to learn responsibility. Dad walked over to the workbench and picked up a plastic funnel connected to clear tubing that looked like something from a science lab.
He threaded the tube through the top of mom’s cage and told Ryan to watch carefully how the feeding system worked. While dad bent down adjusting the tubes, I felt the pen in my sock pressing against my ankle and slowly reached down like I was scratching. My fingers found the pen and pulled it out while dad explained to Ryan about measuring portions and schedules.
I pressed the pen tip against the metal cage floor and started writing Help P as hard as I could. The metal was slippery and the pen keen sliding, but I pressed harder until I could see faint marks forming. Dad moved to my sister’s cage with another tube and I quickly wrote our three names under help. While he wasn’t looking, Tracy walked over to the workbench, pretending to examine the tools, but I saw him pick up his phone that he’d left there earlier.
He held it down by his side, and I heard the soft click of the camera as he took pictures of us in the cages. His hands were shaking so bad, I thought he might drop the phone, but he kept taking pictures while dad’s back was turned. Dad finished connecting all three feeding tubes and picked up a water bottle from the workbench.
He poured water into the funnel above my sister’s cage, and we watched it flow through the tube. My sister tried to drink, but the water came too fast and she started choking and coughing. Ryan laughed and said she looked funny trying to breathe. Dad told him he was a natural at understanding how to control women. It would make a great husband someday.
The doorbell rang upstairs, and then someone knocked loud enough that we could hear it clearly in the basement. Dad froze and looked at the ceiling, then told Tracy to go answer and say, “Nobody was home.” Tracy started walking toward the stairs, but stopped at the bottom step and just stood there.
The doorbell rang again and the knocking got louder and more insistent. We heard multiple voices outside and dad’s face changed when he realized it wasn’t just one person. He told Ryan to stay with us and watch us while he went to handle whoever was at the door. Dad ran up the stairs and we heard him lock the basement door from the outside with the deadbolt.
Ryan sat down on the third step from the bottom and pulled out his phone with the shot collar app. He pressed the button and mom’s whole body jerked in her cage as electricity shot through her collar. She screamed and Ryan laughed saying this was better than any video game he’d ever played.
He shocked my sister next and she curled into a ball crying while he scrolled through the settings on his phone. The voices upstairs got louder and we could hear dad yelling something about needing to see a warrant and knowing his rights. Ryan looked nervous for the first time since this started and stood up to go listen at the door. He pressed his ear against the basement door trying to hear what was happening upstairs.
Tracy’s phone started buzzing on the workbench where Ryan had been sitting earlier after taking it from Tracy. Ryan walked over and picked it up, swiping to see the messages on the screen. His face went white as he read text from someone named Mrs. Parker asking if we were okay and saying she’d called the police. More messages kept coming saying she knew something was wrong and help was coming.
We heard heavy footsteps above us moving through the house and dad shouting about private property and constitutional violations. Then there was a loud crash, like furniture falling over and multiple people talking at once and commanding voices. The basement door suddenly exploded inward as someone kicked it open and police officers rushed down the stairs with their hands on their weapons.
Ryan dropped Tracy’s phone and tried to run toward the back of the basement, but an officer caught him by the arm. The officer held Ryan while calling for backup and paramedics on his radio. More officers came down and one of them saw us in the cages and immediately started taking pictures with his phone. A woman officer knelt down by mom’s cage and told her everything would be okay now and they were going to get us out.
She asked who had the keys or remote for the locks and we all pointed at dad who was being brought down the stairs in handcuffs. The officers made dad tell them where the remote was and he said it was in his pocket but refused to say which one. They searched him and found two remotes, one for the cages and one for the shot collars.
The woman officer pressed the button and mom’s cage clicked open and she helped hold mom out onto the basement floor. Mom couldn’t stand up because her legs were numb from being cramped in the small space. They got my sister out next and she immediately threw up from the stress and the bad water dad had forced through the tube.
When they opened my cage, I crawled out and showed them what I’d written on the floor with a pen. The officer taking pictures made sure to photograph the words and our names I’d scratched into the metal. Tracy came down the stairs with another officer and handed over his phone with all the pictures he’ taken. The paramedics arrived and started checking us for injuries.
While the police collected evidence from the basement, they bagged the shot collars, the feeding tubes, and took measurements of the cages. Ryan sat on the stairs crying and saying, “Dad made him do everything, but the officers had already seen the messages on Tracy’s phone.” One of the paramedics wrapped me in a soft blank and checked my pulse and blood pressure while asking if I could feel my legs and arms.
Everything felt tingly and weird from being cramped for so long, but nothing seemed broken or seriously hurt. They helped us up the stairs one at a time because we were all too weak and shaky to walk on our own. A detective with a badge that said, “Travis McNeel pushed through the other officers and stopped dead when he saw us.
” His face went white and he immediately grabbed his radio calling for more paramedics and saying something about priority response. He asked who had the keys to the cages and we all pointed upstairs where dad was still yelling at the police. McNeel sent two officers to get the remote from dad while the paramedics started working on the cage locks with bolt cutters.
The metal was thick and it took them forever to cut through while mom just sat there crying and crying. My sister had gone completely silent and wouldn’t look at anyone. They finally got the first lock cut and pulled mom’s cage door open. Two paramedics helped lift her because she couldn’t move her legs at all.
They wrapped her in this soft yellow blanket and a female officer sat down next to her on the floor. The officer kept telling mom we were safe now and that nobody would hurt us again, but mom just stared at the wall like she wasn’t even there. The paramedics moved to my cage next and started cutting while I watched mom rock back and forth.
When they got my door open, I tried to crawl out, but my legs wouldn’t work right from being cramped up for so long. Everything felt like pins and needles, and I kept falling over. A paramedic named Meline caught me before I hit the ground and helped me sit against the wall. She checked my wrist where dad had grabbed me so many times, and the bruises were purple and black all the way around.
She took pictures of everything with a camera while being really gentle about moving my arms to see all the marks. Angela Wooten from CPS showed up with a whole team of people carrying cameras and evidence bags. He went straight to the corner where dad had thrown the shot collars after taking them off us. He picked them up with gloves and put each one in a separate bag while writing notes on labels.
His team photographed the cages from every angle and measured them with tape. One of them found the feeding tubes and looked like he might throw up. We could hear dad upstairs arguing with the police and demanding his lawyer. He kept shouting about his rights and private property, but then we he handcuffs clicking.
Brian was crying now and his voice carried down through the ceiling. He kept saying dad made him do everything and he didn’t want to hurt us. The paramedics got my sister out last and she wouldn’t even cry or make any sound at all. They carried us up the stairs one at a time on these orange boards because we were too weak to walk.
Outside there were ambulances everywhere with their lights flashing. I saw Tracy sitting in the back of a police car with an officer looking at his phone. Tracy was showing him something and the officer’s face got more and more shocked with each picture. The officer called another detective over and they both stared at whatever Tracy had recorded.
They took us to different ambulances and Meline stayed with me the whole ride. At the hospital, they put us in separate rooms at first for examinations. Meline documented every single bruise and burn and mark on my body. She was gentle but really thorough and took pictures of everything for the case file.
She found burns I’d forgotten about and bruises in places I couldn’t even see. She measured the marks from the shot collar around my neck and the scars from dad’s lighter on my arms. She kept apologizing for having to document everything, but said it was important for the case. After the medical exam, they brought in a detective to interview me. Mr.
Guthrie was there too for support, which made me feel a little safer. The detective had a recorder and asked me to tell him everything from the very beginning. I told him about the first night mom answered the phone without asking and how dad made the new rules. I explained about asking permission for everything and how my brothers didn’t have to follow any rules.
I told him about standing in the corner with my arms up and dad burning me with the lighter. I described the shock colors and how Ryan would shock us for fun when dad wasn’t around. I told him about the cages and the feeding tubes and how Ryan was going to control whether we ate. Mr. Guthrie held my hand when I started shaking during the worst parts.
The detective asked really specific questions about dates and times and who did what. He wanted to know exactly what dad said and did and what my brothers did too. He wrote everything down and had me sign a statement saying it was all true. Down the hall, I could hear mom finally starting to talk. The advocate from the women’s shelter had arrived and mom was telling her everything.
Mom explained about the note she tried to give the cashier at the grocery store and how dad had found out. She told the advocate about dad shaving her head as punishment while my brothers watched. She talked about trying to protect us but not being able to stop any of it. The advocate just listened and took notes and told mom none of this was her fault.
Mom cried harder when the advocate said we were brave for surviving. The doctor called for my sister next and took her to another room while I waited in the hallway with Maline. Through the door, I heard my sister crying for the first time since everything started and the doctor calling for another nurse to help hold her still.
They brought in special equipment to photograph the burns around her neck where the shot collar had been on too long and too tight. The doctor came out after an hour looking really upset and told Maline my sister needed immediate treatment for infected wounds that were already showing signs of blood poisoning.
They wheeled her to surgery right away while the doctor explained to Angelo that the burns were third degree in some places and she’d need skin grafts after they cleaned out all the dead tissue. Angela wrote everything down in his notebook and made more calls to his supervisor about emergency placement for us. That night they moved us to a shelter downtown while police officers stood guard outside our rooms because dad was still being processed at the station.
The shelter had small rooms with real beds and doors that locked from the inside which made mom cry again because we could control who came in. Angelo stayed with us until midnight filling out paperwork and explaining that dad was being held without bail because the judge said we were in immediate danger if he got out. The next morning, two detectives came to the shelter with Tracy’s phone and showed Angela the videos Tracy had recorded of Ryan shocking us over and over while laughing.
They played one video where Ryan held the button down for 30 seconds straight while my sister screamed and wet herself and Tracy’s voice in the background said to stop, but Ryan just kept going. The detective said they had enough evidence to charge Ryan as a juvenile and were picking him up from the school that morning.
By lunch, Ryan was in custody at the juvenile detention center and the judge ordered a full psychological evaluation to see if he understood what he’ done to us. Tracy went to live with our aunt from mom’s side, who drove 6 hours to pick him up after the detective called her about everything. Tracy gave the detective a written statement about everything he saw and promised to testify against dad in court if they needed him to.
He looked smaller somehow when he hugged mom goodbye and whispered that he was sorry he didn’t help us sooner. At the shelter, mom met with a lawyer. the advocate brought who specialized in domestic violence cases. The lawyer spread out divorce papers and restraining order forms on the table, but mom’s hands were shaking too bad to hold the pen study.
The advocate had to help guide mom’s hand to sign her name on each document while the lawyer explained that dad would never have custody rights again. Mom could barely write her signature because her fingers kept cramping from years of not being allowed to hold things without permission. Two weeks passed with us living at the shelter and going to court hearings and medical appointments every day.
The family court judge was an older woman who read through all the evidence Angelo had collected, including the photos of our injuries and Tracy’s videos. Dad appeared on a screen from jail wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs while his lawyer tried to argue for supervised visits. When dad started talking about his rights as a father, my sister ran behind mom’s chair and covered her ears while shaking so hard that Baleiff had to bring her water.
The judge granted mom full custody immediately and signed a permanent protection order that meant dad couldn’t contact us ever again, even through other people. A month after that, the prosecutor came to the shelter to tell us dad had agreed to take a plea deal for 15 years in prison rather than go to trial. Mom said it wasn’t long enough for what he did, but at least we wouldn’t have to testify and relive everything in front of a jury.
The prosecutor explained that with the evidence they had, dad would definitely be convicted, but trials were hard on victims, especially kids. 3 months into our stay at the shelter, Ryan’s case finally went to court, where he sat at a table looking confused about why he was in trouble. The judge reviewed the psychological evaluation that said Ryan had been trained by dad to see women as objects, but still understood that causing pain was wrong.
Ryan got sentenced to stay in a juvenile treatment facility until he turned 18 with mandatory therapy and education about respecting women. His lawyer tried to argue that Ryan was just following dad’s orders, but the judge said the video showed Ryan enjoying our pain too much to claim he was just obeying. We started going to therapy at the shelter with a counselor who worked specifically with abuse survivors and understood why we couldn’t talk at first.
That first session, I sat in the chair shaking while the counselor just waited patiently without pushing me to speak before my body was ready. She gave me paper and crayons to draw what I was feeling since words wouldn’t come out of my mouth no matter how hard I tried. Mom went to her own sessions where we could hear her screaming sometimes through the walls as she let out years of anger she’d held inside.
4 weeks after everything ended, Tracy sent us a letter through our aunt since he wasn’t allowed to contact us directly yet. Mom opened it with shaking hands and read it out loud while we sat on her bed in our shelter room together. Tracy wrote about how he was in therapy, too, learning about how wrong dad’s teachings were and how sorry he was for calling us servants and watching us suffer without helping.
He said he had nightmares now about the corner punishment and the burns and wished he’d been brave enough to tell someone at the school. When mom read the part where Tracy said he loved us and wanted to earn our forgiveness someday, we all started crying, even my sister, who hadn’t cried once once once since the rescue.
The advocate brought us tissues and sat with us while we held each other and cried for everything we’d lost and survived. 2 weeks after Tracy’s letter, the advocate knocked on our shelter room door, holding a thick envelope from CPS with housing vouchers inside for one-bedroom apartment across town.
Mom’s hand shook as she signed the lease paperwork while the landlord explained about the dead bolt and chain lock, not knowing those security features meant more to us than the actual apartment. We moved in with just three boxes of donated clothes and some dishes from the shelter. But mom tested the lock six times that first night before she could relax enough to sit down.
The apartment was so small that my sister and I had to share a pullout couch in the living room, but we didn’t care because nobody could hurt us there and we controlled who came inside. I went back to the school the next Monday with a safety plan the advocate helped create where I had to check in with Mr. McGuffy every morning before first period and again at lunch.
Some kids stared at the healing burns on my arms and whispered when I walked past their desks, but my teacher moved my seat next to her desk and gave anyone who bothered me attention. The principal called mom to say they had assigned aid to walk me between classes for the first month and Ryan wasn’t allowed within 50 ft of the building, even though he was locked up anyway.
Mom started her new job at the grocery store 3 weeks after we moved into the apartment, working the early morning shift stocking shelves before customers arrived. The shelter’s job program had helped her apply, and the manager knew our situation. So, when mom froze up the first day seeing a man who looked like dad, he let her take breaks in the back office until she could breathe again.
She wore long sleeves to hide the shot color scars and a baseball cap to cover her stubbled head, counting inventory numbers to keep her mind busy when anxiety hit. Three months passed before my sister finally slept through a whole night without waking up screaming about the cages. I held her hand every night while she fell asleep, humming songs mom used to sing before dad made the rules, and slowly her grip loosened as real sleep came instead of nightmares.
The therapist said it was normal for trauma to show up in dreams and gave us techniques like keeping a nightlight on and spraying lavender on the pillows. One morning, I woke up to find my sister still asleep at 7:00. Her face peaceful instead of twisted with ear and mom cried happy tears making breakfast. Tracy started visiting us once a week at a community center with our aunt supervising because the court said he couldn’t be alone with us yet.
That first visit, he could barely look at us, his hands shaking as he explained how his therapist was teaching him that everything dad taught about women was wrong and sick. He brought drawings he made in therapy showing his feelings about what happened. Mostly dark scribbles with small figures trapped in corners.
Our aunt sat in the corner reading a book, but watching carefully while Tracy told us about the residential program where he lived now with other boys learning to overcome toxic masculinity. He said they had to practice asking permission for things to understand how it felt. And one boy who’d abused his sister had to write her a 100 letters of apology.
The detective called one Tuesday afternoon while mom was at work to tell us they’d searched dad’s computer and found blueprints for the cages dating back 5 years. He’d ordered the metal online piece by piece, hiding purchases across different credit cards, and had detailed notes about training sons to control women.
There were emails to men’s rights groups where he bragged about his system and encouraged others to try similar methods with their family. The detective said this evidence meant dad would definitely get the maximum sentence because it showed years of landing, not just anger that got out of control.
Mom’s hair grew back so slowly that we measured it with a ruler each Sunday, celebrating when it reached half an inch, then 1 in, and finally long enough to need brushing. The day it was long enough for a tiny ponytail, maybe 2 in sticking up from her head. She cried in the bathroom mirror while my sister and I decorated it with every colorful clip we could find at the dollar store.
She wore those bright pink and yellow clips to work the next day, and her manager said she looked beautiful, which made her smile for real instead of the fake smile she’d been practicing. I joined a support group for kids at the community center where eight of us sat in a circle talking about surviving different kinds of abuse.
One girl’s uncle had locked her in a closet for days at a time while a boy’s mom had burned him with cigarettes and hearing their stories helped me understand we weren’t alone in surviving something terrible. The counselor running the group taught us coping strategies like deep breathing and grounding exercises where we named five things we could see, four we could touch, three we could hear, two we could smell, and one we could taste.
6 months after leaving dad’s house, we had our first completely normal day where nobody cried, nobody had panic attacks, and nobody jumped at sudden noises. We ordered pizza and watched movies on the donated TV from the shelter. My sister picking the cartoon while mom and I just enjoyed seeing her act like a regular kid again.
That night, we all slept without nightmares and woke up without the crushing fear that had lived in our chest for so long. Mom got promoted to shift supervisor after eight months at the grocery store because her boss said she never missed a day and always finished her tasks perfectly. She came home with a small raise and benefits including health insurance, which meant my sister could finally get proper treatment for the nerve damage from the shot collar.
Her boss told her she was the most reliable employee they’d had in years, which made her smile the real smile we hadn’t seen since before dad made his rules. My sister came home from the school one afternoon holding a pink envelope and looking scared to even show it to us. She pulled it out of her backpack slowly and mom read it.
An invitation to a classmate’s birthday party at the bowling alley next Saturday. The shelter advocate who still checked on us weekly said this was good progress and helped mom fill out the permission slip while my sister watched nervously. That Saturday morning, my sister changed outfits four times before we drove her to the bowling alley.
And mom’s hands shook on the steering wheel the whole way there. We sat in the parking lot for 10 minutes watching other kids go inside before my sister finally opened the car door and walked in by herself. Mom and I went to the coffee shop across the street and spent two hours staring at our phones, waiting for something bad to happen, jumping every time someone walked past our table.
When we picked her up, she was actually smiling and carrying a goodie bag, talking non-stop about how she got three strikes and ate pizza with the other kids. At the school, Mr. DGH assigned us to write about bravery for English class. And I stayed after school every day for a week, typing my story in the computer lab. I wrote about the morning I passed the note to the nurse with Ryan watching, about mom trying to get help at the grocery store, about my sister climbing out her window, even knowing the alarms would go off. Mr.
McGregor read it during his lunch break and his eyes got wet, and he helped me edit it and submit it to a statewing contest for high schoolers. Three weeks later, the letter from the court arrived saying dad’s appeal got denied and he’d serve the full 15 years without possibility of early release. The prosecutor called mom to explain that the photos from Tracy’s phone and the evidence of years of planning meant no judge would reduce his sentence.
She also told us Ryan was doing better at the juvenile facility, going to therapy every day and might get moved to a group home in 6 months if he kept improving. Tracy’s graduation came in June and he asked us to come even though we hadn’t seen him in 2 months. We sat in the back row of the auditorium while he walked across the stage in his cap and gown.
And when they called him for his special speech about overcoming adversity, he talked about growing up in a house where he learned wrong was right. He thanked us for surviving what he should have stopped and said he was going to spend his life making up for staying silent when we screamed.
Our apartment started feeling like home after we hung pictures on the walls, simple ones from the dollar store of sunflowers and beaches we’d never been to. Mom bought three small plants for the kitchen window and watered them every morning, smiling when new leaves appeared. My sister picked purple paint for her side of our shared room and we spent a whole weekend painting, getting it on our clothes and laughing when mom walked in, covered in purple dots.
The letter saying I won the writing contest came on a Tuesday and included a check for $500. I cashed it at the bank where mom had her new account and went straight to the department store, finding a long blue winter coat with a warm hood that cost almost all of it. Mom cried when I gave it to her. Real happy tears this time, saying she was proud of how strong I’d become, even though I didn’t feel strong at all.
My sister got cast as the brave princess in her school play and practiced her lines every night for 3 weeks, making us watch her perform the sword fight scene over and over. The night of the performance, we all went, even Tracy, who drove 2 hours to be there. And when she walked on stage in her cardboard crown, mom grabbed my hands so tight it hurt.
During her big scene where the princess saves the kingdom, mom whispered that my sister was the bravest person she knew. At her support group, mom met a man named David who’d also left an abusive marriage. And after 3 months of being friends, he asked if he could take her to dinner. He came to our apartment first to meet us, shaking our hands gently and asking if we were comfortable with him dating our mom, saying he’d understand if we needed more time.
When mom reached for her purse, he asked if he could carry it for her. Not taking it, but offering, and my sister and I looked at each other, knowing this was different. December came and we bought a small fake tree from the thrift store, decorating it with paper ornaments we made ourselves. Mom wrapped presents she bought with her own money from her job, putting them under the tree without hiding them or locking them away.
Christmas morning, we opened them whenever we wanted. Nobody asking permission or waiting for approval. My sister ripping paper while I carefully saved mine and mom taking pictures with her phone. Tracy got his acceptance letter to state college in January, choosing social work as his major because he said he wanted to help kids recognize abuse and escape it.
He showed us this application essay about growing up watching his father torture us and doing nothing. About learning that silence makes you guilty, too. The admissions board wrote a note saying his honesty and commitment to change would make him an excellent social worker someday.
The community center smelled like old gym mats when we walked in for our first self-defense class 3 weeks later. Mom signed us up after seeing a flyer at the grocery store and the instructor, a short woman with gray hair, showed us how to break a wrist grab on the first day. My sister practiced the move over and over on me, twisting her body and pulling her arm free until she could do it without thinking.
Mom learned to throw her elbow back if someone grabbed her from behind, and we all practiced yelling, “No!” as loud as we could, which felt strange at first, but got easier. The instructor taught us to aim for soft spots like eyes and throat, and how to use our keys as weapons between our fingers. We went every Tuesday and Thursday for two months, learning to duck under punches and kick at knees, and by the end, my sister could flip me over her shoulder, even though I was bigger.
This morning, I woke up at 7:00 and walked straight to the kitchen without waiting for anyone. I cracked eggs into a pan and turned on the stove, making scrambled eggs while mom slept in. When I needed to pee, I just went to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. My sister came out and asked what smelled good, and I told her about the eggs without checking if I was allowed to speak.
These tiny things that everyone else does without thinking, feel huge to us, and our apartment, with its deadbolt we control ourselves, is the only place we’ve ever felt completely safe. Thanks for letting me wonder through all this with you. Definitely been quite a journey to share together. Really appreciate you being here.
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