My parents forced me to match my twins injuries after a car crash, but I refused surgery. A CPS worker stepped in and our lives changed forever.

Lily and I were identical, so my parents emphasized it. They believed identical twins were nature’s flawless creation and that our differences needed repair.

Emma and Lily were similar names. Every morning started the same. We stood in the bathroom as mom measured.

Measure millimeter long hair, decimal weight, pencled wall height. We measured our waists, arms, legs, and facial widths using this weird caliper.

She panicked at every change. Since Lily was 2.5 lbs heavier than me, mom made her run on the treadmill for an hour after supper.

I ate peanut butter spoonfuls to catch up. We wore the same everyday, same underwear, socks, shoes. Lily received the same ruler measured haircut every week, even if her feet expanded and her toes squished.

Multiple interests would change us. Therefore, we couldn’t have them. Even though I was bad at piano and Lily was superb, we accepted.

Like my calves, Lily loathed jogging, but we played soccer.

Strangely, Lily and I got along. We had distinct personalities, stayed close friends.

We tried to be alike to avoid complicating each other’s lives. Both of us wanted to be ourselves.

We always planned to leave at 17 and color my hair pink. No more jogging shoes for Lily.

Puberty hurt. Mom made my bras match Lily and covered her breast when she outgrew mine.

Our faces changed somewhat. I kept my nose modest as Lily’s expanded. One night, Mom brought cosmetic surgeon brochures into our bed and stated we’d received nose surgery at 15 to look alike.

In holiday planner style, she showed before and after images. Lily glanced at me and said she was done.

We plotted our escape that night. We didn’t want to wait 1.5 years for nose jobs.

We stashed birthday and Christmas cash. Bus schedules to our typical relative city were reviewed.

Patient and hardworking, we felt clever. However, mom found our vacation fund.

First, she didn’t shout. At the kitchen table, she tallied and questioned every penny.

She doubted our savings for matching bikes. Dad came home and they glared at us for an hour, worse than yelling.

One week in our room, few food, no school, no phone. They hurt our faces, so Lily sobbed to sleep.

Every night my panic attack started. They watched us constantly while we tried new escape routes.

Our parents homeschooled us to prevent influence. We felt stuck with 3 months till surgery.

A red light runner struck the passenger side 2 and 1/2 weeks ago as Lily and dad were going to the grocery store. I was home with mom when the hospital phoned.

After arrival, they stopped us from seeing her for hours. Doctors found her stable, but her face was through the windshield.

Broken nose, cheekbone, and jaw. She was operated on. I couldn’t breathe.

My best buddy in company was Lily. They operated on her four times in one and a half weeks.

Returning home altered her appearance. Correct scar coverage. Her mouth dropped.

Her nose was odd. She looked nothing like me anymore.

Mother and father called me into the kitchen alone that night while Lily slept upstairs. Dad pulled Lily’s injury photographs and medical records from a folder.

He placed them on my table. photos of her face after the accident. Each surgery and each shattered and reset bone.

I felt sick seeing them. My mom touched my shoulder while sitting next to me.

Medical images on the kitchen table jolted my palms. Each photo depicts Lily’s face differently.

Broken bones, surgeries, scars. Mom and dad observe me like a family talk, like asking if I want pizza for supper instead of suggesting I need surgery to match my sister’s car accident damage.

I stare at each shot despite nausea. Lily’s red face after collision. Her X-ray shows a broken cheekbone.

All broken and repaired bones are listed in the surgery report. I talk hollowly while they demonstrate their plan.

Saying I need to think about this buys me one night before consenting. Dad shuts the folder and mom squeezes my shoulder like I did well.

That night, I wait for mom and dad’s bedroom door to close and TV to start. Lily is awake, checking the ceiling in the dark as I enter her room.

We converse lightly in bed, but her tight mouth makes it hard to hear. I hold her hand as she slurs and rejects.

Despite our helplessness, we shall halt and escape. I feel her shaking, chilly hand.

She used to express, “I love you” with three hand squeezes, and I squeeze back four times to add.

We cry silently at night. I sneak back to my room before mom’s midnight check after she sleeps.

The next morning, Lily struggles to eat yogurt with a straw at the kitchen table. Scars heal on her injured, swollen right face.

Every step hurts and she seldom moves alone. Medication helps mom manage Lily’s pain.

Lily is more trapped than me. She can’t drive or call for help.

I’m uneasy since any escape plan must accommodate her medical needs and physical restrictions. With understanding, she looks at me.

We cannot flee as planned before the accident. Now everything’s altered.

Dad works and mom takes Lily to physical therapy in the afternoon. The first unoccupied house in days.

Looking for mom’s surgery brochure from last night’s talk in the garage recycle can. Smoothing it on the kitchen counter makes my palm sweat.

To illustrate the surgeon’s name and contact details, I snap each page with my phone. I speak gently to test the voice recorder file storing.

Meanwhile, my heart races. I monitor the driveway for mom’s automobile.

I hid the leaflet and recycling and deleted the test video before hearing the garage door open. They arrive while I do math homework at the table, acting natural.

Next morning, mom reframes her philosophical lecture over breakfast. Twin studies, psychological links, and Lily’s trauma as my trauma are explored.

She thinks we should share this experience to stay connected since it’s about emotional healing, not beauty.

Dad says insurance may pay psychological anguish rebuilding. He claims twins had mental health matching procedures following research.

Justifying this makes me ill, not insane. trying to sound medical.

Mom grabs my hand across the table. She claims hitting my face heals you and Lily.

That night, I test what would happen if I declined. I want to sound intrigued, not defiant.

Would I rather not? I ask. Mom freezes.

She glanced at me coldly after setting down her fork. She thinks that’s impossible since I’m a kid and my parents know what’s best for us mentally.

Dad claimed denying would ignore Lily’s needs. That my vanity would trump sister’s recovery.

My little optimism fades. Requested no permission. They never were.

Lily and I read medical labels and organize medicines into her daily container the next morning. I hear mom showering.

Dad works. Mom showers 15 minutes before dad gets home. Daily something but little.

Short break from inspection. I safeguard this facts.

I see Lily noticed becoming more aware and slow. her small nod.

We say nothing yet. This may be our only chance to call, hide, or act silently.

My mother’s sister, Clare, lives 1.5 hours away in the metropolis. Mom felt she was a negative influence, so we haven’t seen her in years.

She didn’t get our twin hood and treated us separately. I uncover an old address book in the garbage while hunting for stamps.

Pasting Clare’s number and address into my phone makes my fingers sweat. I must be fast since mom may find me anytime.

Clare may help us once mom disconnected. She noticed the twist.

Returning the address book, I quietly closed the drawer.

My phone screen lights up without touching it in bed that night. Instagram was online 1.5 minutes ago.

Even if I haven’t used my phone, social media, or email in hours, my parents are monitoring. I observe the pattern for an hour to get the last active timestamps.

Everything is checked after nighttime and before school. I intend for their observation.

I must be wiser than deleting. I must conceal information. Draft instead of transmit.

Possible unknown app usage.

I record on my phone during the medicine window and leave it on the kitchen counter before going to the restroom the next morning.

I pretend to forget my phone in the restroom. Through the bathroom door, I hear mom and dad in the kitchen conversing.

Flushing the toilet loudly and washing my hands carefully. I nonchalantly put my phone in my pocket.

When I return, I wear headphones to listen to the recording while Lily naps. Dad hears mom instructing him to arrange my treatment immediately since Emma would oppose and Dr. Harris looked ethical.

Might need someone else.

I know their goal, but the sound rattles my palms. I save the file three times and bury my phone beneath the bed.

I hear a strange restroom sound in the corridor that afternoon. I open the door to see Lily looking in the mirror.

Shakes and shouts. These painful breaths.

Right cheek is swelled with furious dark red scars. Her jaw misalign.

She barely speaks through her jaw wires, but I hear monster and sorry, ruining everything.

My arm across her shoulders without looking at her. I call her attractive and innocent.

I say that while she tears on my shoulder. I’m too mad with mom and dad to think.

They humiliated her for her injuries, not something else. Withdraws and cries at me.

She murmurs through her wired jaw that she dislikes my look. She’d rather be different than hurt me.

Not sure, but I guarantee it’ll be okay.

Dad sliced Lily’s meal into little pieces for mash and swallow. Mom insists I us sit and use forks similarly.

Dad casually suggests I get cosmetic surgery in one and a half weeks. An appointment with a dentist or anything normal.

Lily stiffens in the chair next to me as my fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Faces.

His mom grins awkwardly and says, “Doctor Harris accomplishments are lauded. No more eating.”

So, I put my fork down. Now, the time frame is true. 1.5 weeks, 1 and a half weeks till attempt.

Under the table, Lily squeezes my hand. Nobody finishes dinner.

I locate an old USB disc in dad’s desk drawer after bedtime in the dark. My hands shake so much I dropped it twice before placing it in my PC.

Sound from my phone gets transferred to disk. Email opens next, not sent.

My audio note, my draft may go unnoticed. Claire’s old address book, email address, and new document.

I named my topic assistance and added audio. Heart thumps loudly.

I save that draft. Multiple sources provide evidence. Finding one copy may not reveal all.

Hide the USB device in a shelf book and delete my browser history.

Putting my phone under my mattress makes me glance at the ceiling instead of sleeping.

Tomorrow is Lily’s hospital follow-up. I focus on everything while driving silently.

I observe hospital activities as mom discusses Lily’s recuperation with physicians.

Passing the elevators leads to the social worker’s office. I observe staff patient interactions.

I prioritize privacy and cameras. A suggestion box is near lifts. Top slot metal box.

I recollect its location.

Discharge nurse is nice. Entry guard appears bored.

Nothing looks wrong, but I’m documenting everything to get aid.

I tell mom I need to pee as she takes Lily down the hall for imaging. Mom nods, pushing me to hurry.

I lock the toilet and take a folded paper from my pocket. It was written during morning medicine.

Plain language. My parents want to operate on me at 14. I refuse. I have no choice, they say.

Please assist.

My trembling hands make folding paper difficult. Pass the elevators and exit the bathroom like I’m going back to the waiting area.

Stop and observe. Nobody’s watching.

Put the folded letter in the suggestion box and continue. My heart is racing and my hands are sweaty, but it’s done.

The note exists. Readers will appear.

Well, I tried. Maybe nobody cares or jokes about it.

Mom sees me viewing the hospital bulletin board too much at home that night. She doubts my actions.

I quickly say I need volunteers. She scrutinizes my foolish lie.

Her silence implies mistrust. Dad regulates dinner.

No more missing Lily’s appointments. His excuses are safety, but we know better.

I concerned them by being visible in the hospital, increasing monitoring. Like me, Lily is afraid.

Space is limited.

I run quickly the next morning while mom washes and dad is gone for 15 minutes. Write Clare a letter on notebook paper discussing operation techniques, records, and traps.

I tell her we need aid. Take the USB drive and stick it to the letter’s bottom.

Fold and seal everything. The front address of Clare is hidden in my backpack.

Dad instructs us to mail bills at the post office that afternoon. I’m told to help Lily get in and out of the car.

Dad helps Lily out of the car as I hold the post office door.

Door features outgoing mail slot. The letter falls effortlessly from my bag into the slot.

Dad doesn’t see. I drove home knowing Clare would get the letter.

Days may pass, but she’ll get it. A few days later, mom keeps Lily’s ID in the living room.

She measures Lily’s scars completely using calipers. She snaps Lily’s jaw and scars with her phone.

She now records which surgeries caused which injuries in a notepad. She wants scars patterns matched.

Watching the doorway, I sense something. Free from fear. Pure anger.

She doesn’t consider this insane. She’s careful and scientific.

She may be preserving something, but she’s hurting me and producing crafts.

Tell dad I need a homeschool library book. Though cautious, he drives me to utilize library computers once I explain my job.

I researched state minor consent laws. I checked legal and medical ethical sources.

No one can make me have elective surgery. Non-emergency procedures need my rise.

Even at 14, I have bodily rights.

The information appears like armor, but I can’t utilize it. Some printed papers are folded in my pocket.

I carefully deleted the browser history and read a random World War II book to simulate travel.

Reading the book in the back seat on the way home makes me think about permission, rights, and physicians listening.

Lily practices wired mouth speaking on her bed that night. This incomprehensibility irritates her. Complete slur.

She speaks via wires and swells. She looks at me and says, “You be mouth for both. I understand.

She can no longer represent us. I must speak. I represent us since she can’t.”

We sat on the bed with me holding her hand. My pledge to her.

Despite my fear and doubts, I will speak up and not let them hurt me. She needs to hear.

We clasp hands in the dark and I know she needs me.

Dad puts me at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and pen. The next day, he noted what I should tell Dr. Harris next week.

His identical handwriting indicates I want to share Lily’s experience and retain our twin relationship, and that looking different from her is psychologically stressful.

He has me read it loudly, then again, and corrects me when I fumble over a word and start over.

We practice this for nearly an hour until I can say every sentence correctly. Like reciting lines from a play about someone else’s life, I declare how dreadful this is with a calm, clear voice.

Lily is at the doorway when dad nods. Despite her facial injuries, she sobbed.

Escapes before dad notices.

We return to the hospital 3 days later for Lily’s reconstructive surgeon consult. Mom brings Lily out of the van and into the waiting area.

As I handle her prescription bag, the receptionist gives us awful plastic chairs.

A business casual clipboard carrying woman arrives after 15 minutes. Sophia Carter sees serious facial injury patients as a social worker.

Mom sits straight and smiles. Sophia evaluates Lily’s mobility, discomfort, and home care.

Lily nods and speak with her wired jaw, but her words are indistinct. Our family is fine, says mom.

See Sophia’s eyes. She watches me, Lily, and our parents intently.

Mom claims we’re managing quietly when she asks about treatment. Sophia writes on clipboard.

I suppose this woman is upset, but mom is listening, so I’m quiet. When Sophia asks if we need anything more, I breathe and answer.

Still lying, I asked about hospital volunteer options at my last meeting. Sophia takes a teen volunteer leaflet from her folder.

She offers it and says I may contact her office anytime for details. Mom likes my initiative.

That night at home, I read the brochure more. A letter is on the back. Sophia has a blue direct office number.

Those numbers explain what happened. Made a code.

Asking about volunteering is dangerous. Personally contacting her was authorized.

The booklet and other vital items are in my pillowcase.

Mom schedules my doctor’s appointment for next week over breakfast. The cheerful tone suggests a joyful family holiday.

Dad confirms Thursday afternoon’s meeting. Mom takes out a big kitchen folder.

She printed all Lily’s medical and surgical records. process notes, bills, and color tabbed pictures.

Place them on the table to show dad her timeline. They’re moving quicker.

Maybe they sensed my hesitancy at the last hospital visit. Maybe they saw my focus on the social worker.

They speed up time before I can respond.

That night, I hear my parents conversing in their bedroom next door while brushing my teeth. If I’m quiet, the thin walls let me hear much of what they say.

I record audio with my phone out of my pocket. Mom instructs dad to show Dr. Harris everything.

She recommends mental health corrective symmetry for twins instead than superficial matching. She advises dad exaggerate my psychological distress from being different from Lily.

Do as I asked. Imagine my separation.

I record every sentence on my phone against the wall. My hands shake yet I hold the phone.

I record their 10-minute strategy session. I save the file and put my phone in my pocket once they finish chatting.

My face and body are organized and treated like a project, making me unpleasant.

Next afternoon, Lily collapses. She cries during physical therapy in our room. Crying hurts her jaw.

Her nails puncture my hand as she clutches me. Her wired mouth forces me to swear not to be wounded.

I must run, she says. She prefers looking different forever than upsetting me.

I feel responsible for her as my other half, even though I don’t know how I’ll honor my pledge.

Her injuries and need for mom’s medicine and wound care cage her, but we should be equal, mobile with choices.

Over the following few days, I quietly photograph everything. Mom keeps surgical leaflets on the counter, so I imagine them.

The kitchen table is where I photograph Lily’s medical records folder.

Mom measures our faces and bodies using calipers and rulers, which I photograph. Dad closed our bedroom door externally.

I don’t know who I’m suing, but each shot seems like it. Just confirmation.

Dad installs our bedroom lock one morning. I didn’t hear him unlock the hallway, only keyed lock at night.

We know it’s about control, but he says it’s to keep us from wandering the house at night.

I discreetly test the door that night when they believe we’re asleep. Pushing with a slow handle twist.

Nothing. Fully locked. My terror has grown.

We visit the hospital again 2 days later. Mom talks to the receptionist about scheduling as I read Lily’s discharge nurse package.

Business card of Sophia between appointment report and medicine list. A domestic violence hotline and local crisis numbers are on the back.

Mom doesn’t notice when she puts my folder in her handbag since it’s unobtrusive.

After returning home, I remember every card number and put it in my pillowcase with everything else.

I fantasize about contacting the minor rights hotline after supper. I practice my speaking and situational account.

Probably not violence without striking, but I remember domestic violence number two.

The numbers are repeated until they stick. One I can use without my phone because dad stole it.

To prepare for that call, I practice the script and visualize the discussion.

Mother sits on my bed with vintage picture books the next morning. Her sweet melancholy smile and caressing of the area next to her make me five again.

I gently sit up as she starts the first record. My pink clad newborn photographs with Lily.

Mom says our photos prove we were well together. People stopped her on the street to admire her identical twins.

Her compatibility links us throughout life. Her sweet voice says something beautiful is leaving.

With a shopping bag, Dad presents us two pairs of soft pink pajamas with stars as we wore as eight.

Mom cries and says we’re always her lovely identical daughters. Always fantastic together.

Trusting her and snuggling as I was protected as a child aches.

When I see Lily on her bed watching this performance, her face still bloated and disfigured. I remember what they plan to do to me.

I say manipulation instead of mom’s haze. They may love and hurt.

They don’t notice contrasts, I tell myself.

After breakfast, I practice mirror speaking in the bathroom alone. A whisper ejects words.

No consent. Consent makes my lips not form words.

In the mirror, I try louder. I refuse surgery. Even if academic principles seem formal and strange to me at 15, I apply them to acquire the firmst tone.

I experiment. No consent. Realistically flat and chilly.

No consent. So loud I worried someone may hear through the door.

No consent meant quiet but steady. My throat doesn’t tighten after 15 minutes of repetition.

I open the bathroom to find Lily in the hallway. Although her wired jaw prevents speaking, she nods.

A hint of her support of my behavior. The words resemble a spell I’m researching. Repetition will help when needed.

Next day, I check the mail when I hear the mailman. I wait at the window until he leaves.

I beat mom to the mailbox. My letter may bounce if Clare’s address was inaccurate or she moved, and Mom would know.

The everyday absence makes it seem safe. Clare may have got it. I constantly expect awful news that may never arrive, but now it’s doable.

Outside this house, someone may know.

We must take Lily to clinic physical therapy Thursday. The kind-eyed 30-year-old therapist assists Lily with jaw and face exercises.

She asks while assisting Lily chat about sleep and home. Mom comments before we can about how supportive the family is and how we’re healing Lily.

Though she grins, the therapist constantly asking Lily whether she’s all right emotionally and me how I’m coping.

Mom interrupts sounding natural and loving like a lovely family grieving. I watch the therapist like she senses trouble.

The therapist became neutral, but mom never leaves.

With parents listening, she’s powerless. Mom gazing at me inhibits me from yelling for aid, which is abnormal.

Having an adult notice something wrong, but can’t assist is frustrating.

Little sleep the morning before the doctor’s appointment. Getting in the car scares and excites me.

I concentrate and memorize the route while driving for subsequent use.

I count turns while separating business and residential streets. I want bus stops, pay phones, and running help.

I instantly check the waiting area for exits, bathrooms, and emergency exits as I enter Dr. Harris’s office.

The receptionist files her nails, board, and average behind a desk. Maybe she knows the appointments.

After mom checks us in, I sit in scratchy plastic seats with my hands in my lap to hide my shaking.

After 10 minutes, a nurse invites us to a large desk and chairs consultation area. A few minutes later, Dr. Dune arrives with a folder, shakes hands, and sits across from us.

He looks professional at 50 with gray hair, spectacles, and a white coat.

Parents argue over each other on twin symmetry and psychological links. Dad places Lily’s surgery paperwork on the desk and shows Dr. Harris her before and after images.

Mom says, “We’ve always been connected that my anguish at being different from Lily leads to anxiety and suffering.

They seem reasonable, like worried parents attempting to aid their daughter’s mental health.” Our psychological tie and twins connection requirement are highlighted.

Dr. Dr. Harris takes impartial notes. He checks Lily’s medical records and asks about rehab.

His opinions and thoughts are unknown. My heart beats in my throat.

Dr. Harris softly asks what I want after closing the folder. Mom and dad watch me, waiting for me to deliver Lily’s story.

I breathe and talk well despite shaking speech. I practiced in the bathroom mirror.

I refuse surgery. My parents are forcing me to have unneeded procedures at 14.

When mom talks quietly, her face goes white and crimson. Felt endless quiet.

A cautious Dr. Harris shuts the folder before him. He refuses therapies without my consent.

Patient consent is required by medical ethics and state legislation for non-emergency children.

Looks at my parents and says this sharply. He advised family and social therapy before surgery.

Mom says I’m confused, terrified, and don’t know my mental health.

Dr. Harris claims he won’t work without my official consent. I’m relieved yet anxious about homecoming.

Parents first don’t speak returning. Yelling hurts less than sitting in cold.

The calm lasts till our driveway. They burst as we enter the home.

Mom yells at me for forsaking Lily, disregarding our twin bond and selfishness. Dad believes I’m making Lily feel like a monster by hiding her injuries.

Regret weighs on me. The hallway. Lily nods no, indicating me I did well without words.

Mom says, “Don’t listen to them.” I take it.

I bring out all my written transcripts of my recordings that night when they leave us alone in our room.

I store them in my pillowcase, but I need better hiding spots.

I put the first copy in an old textbook on my shelf they’ll never open.

Without raising my desk drawer, the second copy pasted flat against its wood isn’t visible.

The third copy is in my closet hung winter coat owing to a little rip.

I calmly face it, turning fear into determination. Hidden copies disrupt silence.

Even if they take my phone or arrest me again, proof exists.

Next night, my phone will be stolen in 10 minutes. Checking email quickly while pretending to concentrate.

An unknown account gave me odd numbers and letters. Open it and Claire’s message makes my heart race.

The brief reply states she received my letter, trusts me, and can visit this weekend.

Delete this email in all caps.

I remove it from my inbox and trash to be sure. I stare at the ceiling in bed while Lily sleeps next to me, hoping for help for the first time in weeks.

Dad sets down his coffee mug at breakfast two days later and introduces a new surgeon for next week.

He says the doctor’s out ofstate private facility only takes cash.

Mom grins and says he’s discreet and sensitive to unusual family issues, making me cringe.

I feel nervous knowing they’re looking for someone unscrupulous to do this without my approval. One who won’t ask many questions if the money’s right.

Very few doctors are authentic, so thereafter crooks. Just as I thought we had room, walls close again.

Time is limited.

Mom discusses drug regimens with the nurse at Lily’s next hospital visit a few days later. Sophia checks on us in the entryway.

Mom greets her and talks to the nurse without looking. Sophia asks me about Lily’s recovery.

She speaks and hands me a folded paper. She keeps going after placing it in my palm.

The paper wrinkles against my ankle and my sock.

Later, I gingerly unfolded in my bathroom. The safety plan worksheet asks about safe adults, home exits, and emergency numbers.

If I need to move fast, I can add help and destinations.

I write little on the toilet lid to accommodate everything. My comments show our situation, our restricted alternatives, and how our door locks prevent us from leaving our room at night.

After use, I fold and hide it in my pillowcase with the flip phone.

That night, I wait for my parents bedroom door to close and TV to start. I lock myself in the bathroom with the shower running using the flip phone to block noise.

Insert Clare’s email calling card number. She responds nicely on second ring.

Create a code word for instant aid quickly and secretly. Message her any word matching number and she’ll contact 911 and come.

She’s investigated custody and emergency placements and consulted a lawyer concerning our release.

I flush the toilet to hide my voice when I tell her about the outofstate procedure and cash payment.

She claims to be serious and ready. I feel grounded after hanging up, like a plan is forming instead of hope.

Next morning, Dad wants my phone for breakfast. He thinks my attitude has cost me phone access till I’m more helpful.

With the old flip phone concealed and essential files removed, I give it to him without inquiry.

I keep it in my pillowcase at night and sock during the day, not knowing my backup plans.

Dad taking my phone and thinking he won feels like a minor win.

Lily cries that afternoon because her jaw hurts despite medications. Mom gives her more meds and strokes her hair.

She says I made things worse by skipping surgery. To assist Lily recover from sorrow, I owe my face.

Twins are supposed to share everything and by refusing, I’m abandoning Lily when she needs me most.

Guilt makes me want to give in to feel better. But wrath rips through it.

It’s clear that mom is using Lily’s misery to control me. Lily is shaking her head, telling me not to listen, so I focus on that instead of guilt.

At the next clinic appointment a few days later. I wait until mom is talking to the receptionist about scheduling a nurse to ask about volunteer opportunities using our code phrases.

She grins and walks me to Sophia on a stairwell away from the waiting area.

I stutter as I tell her about the new outofstate surgeon, the cashonly payment, and mom and dad’s desperation.

Sophia writes down dates and times and asks thorough questions without interrupting while I tell her about the bedroom locks, phone confiscation, and continual monitoring.

I respond yes because I don’t know what else to say, but we both know it’s not real.

Sophia clarifies the CPS reporting procedure to me. She must submit what I told her and an investigator will interview us, Lily, and our parents individually.

She says my parents may have warnings before acting because family preservation is the aim, which is dreadful, but gives me a feel of what to anticipate.

She gives me her phone again and tells me to call if anything changes or I feel threatened.

I remember the number, thank her, and return to the waiting area before mom realizes I’ve been gone too long.

I appear calmer over the next few days, which makes mom and dad suspicious. I hide stuff, act normal, and keep my face blank and cooperative.

I move the flip phone regularly so they don’t discover it again. They measure my time in the restroom with the door closed and listen at the door when I must sleep.

I pretend to be fatigued so they believe they’re winning. It’s hard, but I’m improving by splitting myself into the one they see and the one plotting our escape.

Clare has a new burner phone, booked a hotel, and requested Lily’s next. After making sure mom and dad are sleeping, I inform Lily and watch her face brighten up.

Even though we both know this may go wrong and that if they catch us leaving with Clare, it may be our final chance.

Mom is waiting in our doorway with her arms cross the next morning. I feel terrible seeing the timeline collapse, and whatever institutional aid arrives won’t be fast enough.

Mom watches my face, so I try to seem calm despite yelling.

After she leaves, I check under my pillow for the charged flip phone. Lily looks at me from her bed and understands.

We don’t have time for lengthy procedures and meticulous paperwork. Everything must happen today at her appointment or nothing will.

I wait for my mom to finish Lily’s clinic check-in papers that afternoon. After asking about volunteer possibilities at her station, the nurse grins and departs down the corridor.

Sophia comes 2 minutes later and asks me to a quiet corner. I tell her about my two-day out ofstate vacation, the cash only clinic, and how mom packed my suitcase.

Sophia says to wait and leaves fast. I count my heartbeats and follow mom across the waiting room.

5 minutes later, she returns with a gray suited man with a leather folder. James McCoy from CPS begs to speak privately.

I agree and accompany them down a corridor to a small office with a desk and three seats.

James pulls out a notebook across from me and says Sophia filed a report based on our chat and he’s investigating.

He asks for proof of what I told Sophia. I show him everything on my phone nervously.

Photos of Lily’s medical paperwork covering our kitchen table. SMS screenshots about locating surgeons with minimal questions.

Photos of our bedroom doors external lock.

James listens to each recording with headphones. Faces neutral. Asks copies via email and writes neatly.

When did compulsion begin? What language did my parents use? Were they threatened? Do you feel physically safe at home?

Despite shaking hands, I answer honestly. I tell James about the out ofstate clinic, which isn’t much except that mom said they accept cash and are discreet.

James writes it all down with such intensity that I think someone’s finally taking this seriously and not just another adult telling me I’m overreacting.

After closing his notepad, James explains. He asks about our living situation and I tell him about the surveillance, how they check my phone every night, time my bathroom trips, and lock us in our bedroom.

He has enough for an emergency inquiry, but he needs many confirming statements. I explain how the surgery will scar my face like Lily’s never, not once.

James diligently documents our narrative, and the pages swell with confirmation. If we need a safe haven, Clare will take us in.

He writes down her contact information and thinks it’s beneficial.

Mom yells in the waiting area as interviews take longer than usual and demands to know why a regular follow-up is taking so long.

The nurse tries to calm her. She replies, “This is ridiculous that she’s Lily’s mother and she has a right to know what’s happening.”

James waved at the door, but didn’t seem disturbed. He thanked me and asked me to wait in the office while he interviewed Lily.

Mom sits up and wonders why they kept me away for nearly an hour. The clinic receptionist is worried and a security guard is approaching the counter.

Sophia says to stay near the security area while James talks to Lily and I oblige. They seal the door as James takes Lily inside the office.

Dad arrives 20 minutes into the interview after leaving work early when mom calls. They’re tense and angry at the office door.

Lily has a notepad and pen, but her wired jaw makes communication difficult. James asks specific questions and she types yes no answers.

Want surgery for yourself? Yes. Want surgery for your sister?

You afraid of your parents? Yes.

James wants to see our bedroom. So, Lily draws him a map with the outside lock.

She says we can’t have different interests, clothes, or be separated.

After leaving the office, Lily tears, but her eyes express relief. She can finally reveal the truth without mom to manage the tale.

The drive home is calm, safe for mom and dad’s furious questions. I wait for their road attention as dad holds the steering wheel and mom stares at us from the front seat.

Dad handling a tight merging. Mom using her phone.

I grab the flip phone from my sock under my jacket and write one phrase to Clare’s number matching with chilly but stable hands.

I hit submit and it goes through. Before they notice, I turn off the phone and put it in my sock.

After an hour home, the front door rings and dad seems confused. Two police officers seek admittance at our doorway.

Mom asks what’s wrong. Police are investigating welfare based on a CPS report.

Dad becomes crimson and says there was a massive misunderstanding and someone misread a private family medical choice.

Mom says they’re helping their twin children stay together. No.

Sophia and James arrive after another knock. James calmly and professionally explains that he must interview for an emergency inquiry using his CPS credentials.

James calls everyone to the living room. Mom and dad are upset, but the officers are there, so they can only demand a lawyer.

James feels that’s their right, but interviews continue anyway. were shivering when I see Lily’s eye across the room.

I resisted forced surgeries. They chose an outofstate cash clinic to avoid ethics. Their records include manipulating doctors and disseminating lies, the bedroom lock, monitoring, and isolation.

Mom argues twins need to appear the same for mental health. Thus, this is cosmetic surgery.

Dad believes parents can make medical judgments since we’re too young to know.

James cuts through it. Coercive techniques and their search for doctors who would skip procedures and informed consent are discussed using my documented denial of consent.

He compares elective cosmetic treatments to urgent medical care.

Dad threatens to sue CPS and everyone in this room while mom cries. The cops are silent but vigilant.

James carefully presents his inquiry data. By night, James makes two calls.

Mom is wailing harder, shouting, “We can’t take her babies and are murdering their family.”

Dad is raving about attorneys rights and government overreach. James has his paperwork and the officers stay.

Clare’s car comes within 30 minutes. I’ve never been more glad when she knocks.

James tells us to pack basics and return with supervision for more. I get our birth certificates, social security cards, and medical records from dad’s filing cabinet and Lily’s medications and tablets from the bathroom.

Mom follows us sobbing and begs us not to put items in bags.

Dad is unhappy and on the phone with a lawyer. Cops take our baggage to Clare’s car.

I take one final glance at our old house and feel deeply relieved and sad for our parents and relatives.

Lily squeezes my hand three times as they cry gently. Four squeezes and we don’t look back.

The following morning, I wake up confused in Clare’s hotel room before remembering where we are.

James phoned to alert Dr. Dune about the probe yesterday. Dr. Dune told the out ofstate clinic of our predicament and coercion and the clinic canceled our appointment immediately.

They’re facing extra ethical charges. Mom and dad’s ploy fails.

No surgery. Stateside only. Once reported by CPS. No doctor would treat this case.

I hang up after thanking James and sat on the bed edge feeling tension I didn’t know I possessed.

Relax my shoulders and chest. No one’s protected forever.

I know there are court hearings and legal processes. And who knows what mom and dad will do next, but we’re away from there and nobody’s slicing my face.

The following week, we leave the hotel and move into Clare’s city apartment. Clare presents her bedroom and sits on the couch with blankets and pillows.

Three people share a tiny flat that smells like coffee and old books.

James calls to announce a 4-week long-term placement hearing. Clare quits her library work to assist us move in, showing us everything and making room in her wardrobe.

First night in Clare’s apartment, I wake up at 3:00 a.m. and lie still, listening to Lily breathe next to me, realizing I can breathe without being seen.

On our second day, we meet with custody attorney Pia Jacobs. The first meeting lasts three hours as she outlines the hearing, our rights, and what the court will want to know.

As Pia takes notes on her laptop, Lily apologizes for talking slowly due to her wired jaw, and says they have enough time.

She looks at us and says she’ll fight for us to stay with Clare, that our parents plan was terrible, and the court must protect us.

I relax since this is the first adult with legal authority to support us.

The same week in her first visit, I watch the fish swim in circles and check my phone every few minutes in the downtown medical office waiting room.

Lily exits with scarlet eyes but lose her shoulders than in weeks. Afterward, Dr. Mitchell, the therapist, invites me to work with Lily on accident trauma, surgical plans, and identity outside of being a twin.

She wants to see me, too, but at different times because we need to be treated as people with our own needs, not as a unit that must match.

Though basic, it hits me hard because nobody’s ever addressed us that way.

Mom and dad receive one Thursday. James’ weekly work callers are calm and sensible, unlike the people who locked us in our room and threatened to chop my face.

Dad’s firm voice explains they were protecting the twin link and didn’t realize we were confined or terrified.

Mom cries and says she loves us and has done everything to keep us together forever.

I feel guilty again, like we messed up.

Lily squeezes my hand three times. After 15 minutes, Clare gives us hot chocolate without questioning what they said.

After four months of homeschooling, the school examines us the next week. An office counselor asks us about our hobbies and ambitions.

I answer, “I want to try art, something I’ve never been allowed to do because mom said it might make my hands develop differently than Lily’s.”

Lily wants theater class, and her voice is quiet but clear through the wired jaw.

She puts it down like twins having different interests is typical. Like we’re not asking for anything tough.

Though little, it seems large. Nobody would force us do the same things.

We can simply be two distinct individuals who look similar as I pull off an inchwide section of hair near my face.

My hands quiver. I mix and apply the dye according to the package instructions. The little bathroom smells chemical.

Unlike Lily’s streak, my streak is vibrant pink against my black hair, so I rinse and dry it.

Pia arrives at Clare’s apartment the day before the hearing, and we discuss it at the kitchen table.

She discusses likely outcomes, interim custody orders, parent therapy, supervised visits, CPS surveillance, and reasonable measures.

Since talking is hard, Lily writes questions on a notebook, and Pia carefully answers them.

After the meeting, I feel prepared as I know what to anticipate, even if it’s not ideal.

Our hearing is on a frigid morning 5 weeks after leaving home. Pia welcomes us in the lobby and explains what’s going to happen, who will testify, and what the court will ask.

The courtroom is smaller than imagined due to wooden seats and powerful lights.

The baleiff asks everyone to sit down, and the judge, a tired-l looking elderly woman with gray hair and spectacles, appears.

James explains his results using recordings and photographs. Sophia addresses hospital visit concerns.

Pia gives our joint statements. The court asks questions and I say we don’t want surgery and don’t feel secure coming home.

The judge carefully studies Lily’s replies and prevents mom and dad’s lawyer from arguing they were concerned parents making medical decisions.

We can’t have elective surgery without written consent.

I wanted more, but Clare is still in kinship. Parents must finish family therapy before unsupervised interaction.

Social workers will supervise twice monthly visits and CPS will monitor for a year.

After a long day at court, Lily falls asleep on Clare’s couch. I write lists at the kitchen table to feel in charge.

School supplies next week, joint treatment. I after putting out everything we need to do and want to do, I realize I’m preparing a future instead of simply existing.

That’s a start, but I know you have ideas. Leave comments. I’m ready. Tell me what you’d change and see which remark gets the most conversation.