In my house, you spoke six languages fluently, or you didn’t speak at all.

When I was eight and accidentally used a French word when I was supposed to be speaking Spanish, my mom slapped me across the face so hard I fell off my chair.

You see, neither of my parents spoke anything except English. But they were both completely obsessed with this idea that multilingual people were superior, and that they’d ruined their own lives by only knowing one language. They’d watch videos of people switching between languages, and Mom would literally cry about how beautiful it was and how stupid she felt. Dad would get drunk and rant about how if he’d learned languages as a kid, he could have been someone important instead of working at a warehouse.

So when my older sister, Louise, was born, they decided their kids would be different.

Every day of the week was assigned a different language, and we had to only speak that language all day long. Monday was French. Tuesday was German. Wednesday was Mandarin. Thursday was Arabic. Friday was Russian. Saturday was Japanese. Sunday was review day, where we practiced all of them.

If you accidentally spoke English or mixed up languages, you got punished immediately. It was either no dinner, locked in your room for hours, or sometimes Mom would make you write lines in the language you messed up.

We had tutors coming to the house every single day after school. My parents couldn’t understand anything the tutors were teaching us, but they’d sit there watching us like hawks to make sure we looked like we were learning. My brother Wyatt was 11 and already having panic attacks before his lessons because the tutors would report to our parents if we weren’t progressing fast enough.

Mom and Dad would record us and send the videos to distant relatives and post them online like,

“Look at our genius children.”

If anyone complimented our language skills, they would act like they’d personally accomplished something amazing, even though they couldn’t understand a word we were saying.

When I turned 13, Mom and Dad sat me down and told me I had exactly two years to become fluent in all six languages, or they were sending me to a boarding school in Europe that specialized in intensive language learning. They showed me the brochure and it looked like a prison—kids in uniform sitting in silent classrooms with no phone calls home and no visits for the first year.

Dad said,

“We’ve already contacted them and they’re expecting you unless you prove you can do this.”

I was already studying like four hours a day after school, and I was exhausted all the time. My grades in regular school were tanking because I was too tired to focus on anything except languages. Wyatt was falling apart too, and he’d started having nightmares about the tutors.

One day, I just snapped.

During my Mandarin lesson, I started making up complete gibberish that sounded vaguely like Mandarin and told the tutor I’d been practicing with some advanced materials. The tutor looked confused and asked me to repeat myself. I just kept going with the fake language, stringing together sounds that meant nothing.

When my parents asked how the lesson went, the tutor said I’d been speaking something he didn’t recognize. I told my parents it was a regional dialect I’d learned from videos online, and that the tutor clearly wasn’t educated enough to understand it.

For like two weeks, I got away with it. I’d just speak nonsense during my lessons and tell my parents the tutors weren’t qualified to test me properly. Wyatt caught on and started doing it too.

We were finally getting some relief.

Then Mom and Dad brought in experts—real linguistics professors from the university who spoke all six languages fluently. They tested us for hours and figured out immediately that we’d been faking.

When the experts told my parents we’d been speaking gibberish, Dad went absolutely insane. He grabbed all our language books and threw them at us one by one. Mom was screaming about how embarrassed she was and how we’d made them look like fools.

They grounded us for two months and doubled our study time. Now we had tutors in the morning before school and at night after school and all weekend. I was getting maybe three hours of sleep, and I started falling asleep in class.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I went to my school counselor and showed her the bruises on my arms from where—

Shorts Update

—Dad had thrown books at me. She called child protective services, and they removed me and Wyatt that same day.

We stayed with a foster family for two months, and it was the first time in my life I could just speak English whenever I wanted. I didn’t have to think about conjugating verbs or remembering tones. Wyatt started sleeping through the night, and I actually started enjoying school again.

Then Mom and Dad showed up at family court with their lawyer and all six of our tutors.

The tutors testified that we were actually making good progress and that multilingual education was beneficial for children. They brought in the linguistics professors who said that while our parents’ methods were strict, we were genuinely learning, and that removing us from that environment would waste years of progress.

Louise testified that she was grateful for her upbringing and that Wyatt and I were just being lazy.

The judge ruled that we had to go back home.

That night, Dad sat us down at the kitchen table and said,

“From now on, there is no more English in this house. You speak the six languages or you don’t speak at all.”

I sat there frozen, my hands pressed flat against the kitchen table to stop them from shaking. Dad’s eyes moved from me to Wyatt and back again, waiting for one of us to mess up, to say something in English so he could prove his point.

Wyatt stared down at his lap, and I could see his chest moving too fast, like he was trying not to cry. The silence stretched out so long my ears started ringing.

Finally, Dad pushed back from the table and walked out. Mom followed him without looking at us.

I grabbed Wyatt’s hand under the table and squeezed it once before letting go, because even that felt dangerous now.

We sat there for maybe ten more minutes not moving, and then I got up and went to my room where the language schedule was already taped to my door.

Monday French. Tuesday German. Wednesday Mandarin. Thursday Arabic. Friday Russian. Saturday Japanese. Sunday review.

The same schedule that had been controlling my life since I was little. Except now there was no escape at all.

I changed into pajamas and got into bed, even though it was only 8:00, because I didn’t know what else to do. Through the wall, I could hear Wyatt moving around in his room, and I pressed my palm against the wall, wishing I could tell him we’d figure something out.

But I didn’t even believe it myself.

The next morning, Mom woke us up at 6:00 instead of 7:00.

When I stumbled into the kitchen, there were new schedules taped to every single wall—kitchen, living room, hallway, bathroom, even inside the pantry. Everywhere I looked, I saw those six languages staring at me.

Mom pointed to the Monday French schedule and said something in French that I was pretty sure meant we’re starting now. I forced my brain to switch over and responded in French that I understood. She nodded and handed me a bowl for cereal.

Wyatt came in looking half asleep, and Mom snapped at him in French to wake up. He flinched but answered back in French.

We ate breakfast in French, got ready for school in French. And even though I’d been doing this for years, it felt different now. Heavier. Like the words were made of rocks I had to carry around.

At school, I could finally speak English again. The relief was so strong I almost cried in homeroom.

But by Tuesday night, I was so tired I could barely think.

The German tutor left at 7:00, and I still had two hours of homework in German. I stared at verb conjugations that kept blurring together. My head dropped forward and I jerked awake.

Then it happened again.

The third time, I didn’t wake up until Mom was shaking my shoulder hard enough to hurt. She was yelling at me in German and I tried to focus on what she was saying, but my brain felt like mud.

She made me sit at the table and finish every single problem, standing over me the whole time to make sure I didn’t fall asleep again. When I finally finished, it was almost midnight, and I had to be up in six hours.

I dragged myself to bed and passed out immediately.

Then the alarm was going off and I felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

At school the next day, I could barely keep my eyes open during math class. My teacher asked if I was feeling okay, but I just nodded and tried to sit up straighter.

Wednesday night, I waited until everyone was asleep, then I snuck into the kitchen where our backpacks hung by the door. My hands shook as I tore a tiny piece of paper from my notebook and wrote in English.

We’ll get through this together.

Just seeing English words I chose to write—because I wanted to, not because someone forced me—made my throat tight. I folded the paper as small as it would go and slipped it into the front pocket of Wyatt’s backpack, then hurried back to my room before anyone caught me.

Thursday morning was Arabic day, and I was exhausted before breakfast even started. We sat at the table conjugating Arabic verbs out loud while Mom watched us.

I saw Wyatt’s hand go to his backpack pocket. He pulled out the tiny folded paper and his eyes went wide. Mom was looking down at her phone, so she didn’t notice when he read it.

For just a second, Wyatt looked at me and gave the smallest nod—so small I almost missed it.

Then he went back to reciting Arabic verb forms like nothing happened.

But that tiny connection, that moment where we acknowledged each other in our real language, felt like the only true thing in this whole nightmare. I wanted to cry and smile at the same time.

Instead, I just kept conjugating verbs in Arabic and pretended everything was normal.

Friday afternoon at school, I was walking to my locker when I had to stop and lean against the wall because I was so dizzy from being tired.

Mrs. Sutherland, my school counselor, came around the corner and saw me there. She walked over and asked if everything was okay at home.

I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to explain about the English-only rule, the schedules on every wall, how I was getting maybe four hours of sleep a night, how Mom made me stay up until midnight finishing homework.

But I was terrified that if I told her, she’d call CPS again. We’d go to court again. The judge would send us back again. And next time it might be even worse.

So I just said I’d been having trouble sleeping lately.

She gave me this look that said she knew I wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She asked if I was sure. I nodded and said I was fine.

She told me her door was always open if I needed to talk.

I thanked her and walked away even though everything in me was screaming to turn around and tell her the truth.

That weekend during Sunday review—where we were supposed to practice all six languages by switching between them—I was so tired I forgot which language I was supposed to be using.

Dad asked me a question in French. I started to answer in French, but then I turned to Wyatt and whispered in English that I couldn’t remember the word for something.

It was barely a whisper. Just a quick, quiet word.

But Dad heard it.

He stood up so fast his chair fell over backward, and I knew I messed up bad. Before I could move, he grabbed the thick Russian textbook off the table and threw it at me.

The corner hit my shoulder hard. Pain shot down my arm. I fell sideways out of my chair and landed on the floor.

The pain was so sharp I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying, because I knew if I cried it would make him angrier.

Dad stood over me yelling in English about how I broke the rule. The irony of him yelling at me in English for speaking English would’ve been funny if I wasn’t so scared.

Mom came in and started yelling too. Wyatt was pressed back in his chair, looking terrified.

I got up slowly, my shoulder throbbing. Dad told me to go to my room and not come out until dinner.

I went upstairs and sat on my bed and pulled my shirt down to look at my shoulder. A dark bruise was already forming where the book hit me.

I stared at it and something shifted inside me.

I couldn’t keep living like this. I didn’t know what I was going to do yet, but I knew I had to do something or I was going to break completely.

Monday morning, I was back in French mode, my shoulder still aching under my shirt.

During lunch, I went to the library instead of the cafeteria. I pulled my science textbook from my locker and opened it to the inside of the front cover, where there was a pocket for papers.

I took out a piece of notebook paper and started writing in English, and it felt like breathing after being underwater.

I wrote the date. Then I wrote,

“Dad threw a book at me yesterday and it left a bruise on my shoulder.”

I wrote about the English-only rule, about falling asleep during homework, about Mom making me stay up until midnight. I wrote about being so tired I could barely think.

When I was done, I folded the paper small and slid it into the textbook cover pocket where no one would find it.

I decided I was going to keep writing everything down—every punishment, every time they hit us, every time they didn’t let us eat, every time they made us stay up too late.

I didn’t know what I’d do with it yet, but at least I’d have proof. At least I’d have something written in my own language that they couldn’t take away from me.

The act of writing it made me feel a little less powerless, like I was holding on to a piece of myself even while they were trying to control everything else.

The next Wednesday, I was in my room after school trying to start my Mandarin homework when I heard Wyatt’s door open.

His Mandarin tutor, Isabella, was supposed to arrive in ten minutes.

I heard Wyatt go to the bathroom, and then I heard this sound that made my stomach drop. He was breathing too fast—quick, gasping breaths—and then he started crying.

I ran into the hallway and found him sitting on the bathroom floor with his back against the wall, crying and hyperventilating. I dropped down next to him and grabbed his hands. They were shaking.

I started talking to him in English, whispering as quietly as I could, because if our parents heard us, we were dead.

I told him to breathe with me. In for four counts, out for four counts, the way the foster mom taught us during those two months we were in foster care.

Wyatt tried, but he couldn’t slow his breathing down. He kept saying in English that he couldn’t breathe. That he couldn’t do this anymore.

I kept coaching him, counting out loud in the quietest whisper I could manage. Slowly, his breathing started to even out. His face was red and wet with tears and snot, and I used toilet paper to help him clean up.

The doorbell rang. Isabella.

Wyatt’s eyes went wide with panic.

I told him it was okay, just get through this one lesson. I helped him stand up even though his legs were shaky.

We went downstairs together. Mom was already letting Isabella in, and I could see Wyatt was still trembling.

Isabella set up her materials at the dining room table like always. But when she looked at Wyatt, her expression changed. His eyes were red and puffy and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Mom and Dad stood in the doorway watching the lesson like they always did.

But I saw Isabella glance at them, and something shifted in her face.

She started the lesson in Mandarin, asking Wyatt simple questions, but she kept looking at him with this concerned expression. Every few minutes, she glanced toward the doorway, and I could tell she was seeing something she didn’t like.

Wyatt tried to focus, but his voice kept shaking when he answered.

Isabella wrote something in her notebook, and I could tell it wasn’t about Mandarin grammar.

She kept the lesson shorter than usual—only forty-five minutes instead of an hour. When she packed up, she looked at Wyatt one more time with worry in her eyes.

After she left, I wondered if she might actually help us. If she might be someone who would do something instead of just looking away like most adults did.

But I didn’t let myself hope too much, because hoping just made it hurt worse when nothing changed.

That weekend, Mom and Dad called Wyatt and me into the living room and told us they had an announcement.

Dad pulled out his laptop and showed us the router logs—pages and pages of every website anyone in the house had visited.

He said,

“From now on, they’re going to check these logs every single night to make sure we’re only looking at language learning websites.”

Mom said they were also going to check our phones and tablets every night before bed to make sure we weren’t wasting time on anything that wasn’t helping us learn languages.

I felt the walls of the house closing in.

Every possible way to reach the outside world was being cut off. No secret emails. No looking up anything that might help us. No connection to anyone who might understand what we were going through.

That night, I lay in bed and my chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air. I started breathing too fast, and I realized I was having the same kind of panic attack Wyatt had.

I forced myself to do the breathing exercises, counting in my head. Slowly, the panic faded.

But the fear didn’t.

The house felt like a prison that kept getting smaller, the walls moving in a little more every day.

Monday morning, Isabella arrived for my Mandarin lesson, and I noticed right away that something was different about her. Her hands were shaking a little as she set out her books and papers, and she kept glancing at me instead of starting the lesson right away.

I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt because it was warm out. The bruise on my arm from where Dad threw the book was visible—faded to yellow-green now, but still obvious.

Isabella stared at it for a long moment. I saw her swallow hard.

Mom and Dad were in the doorway like always, watching us.

Isabella started the lesson in Mandarin. A few minutes later, Mom said something about needing to check on dinner, and she and Dad stepped away from the doorway.

The second they were gone, Isabella leaned forward and asked, very quietly in English, if I was okay.

Her voice was so gentle and concerned I felt tears build behind my eyes.

I wanted to tell her everything, but I was terrified, so I just shook my head a tiny bit and looked down at the table.

She reached across and touched my hand for just a second.

Then Mom and Dad came back and she switched back to Mandarin like nothing happened.

But that small moment—someone asking if I was okay in English, someone seeing me as a real person instead of just a language-learning project—made me want to cry with relief and sadness at the same time.

On Tuesday during lunch, I slipped away from the cafeteria and went to the library instead of eating. My stomach felt tight, but I wasn’t hungry anyway.

I found an empty computer in the back corner where nobody could see the screen from behind me. I sat down and logged into the school system.

I created a new email account using a fake name my parents wouldn’t recognize if they somehow found it. My hands shook a little as I typed Mrs. Sutherland’s school email address into the recipient field.

I kept the message short and vague because I was scared someone else might read it. I wrote that things at home had gotten worse with the language situation and asked if we could talk privately sometime soon.

I read it three times to make sure I hadn’t said anything too specific that could get me in trouble.

Then I clicked send and watched the message disappear.

I opened the browser history and deleted every single entry from the past hour. I cleared the cache and cookies too, just to be safe. Then I logged out of the computer and wiped the keyboard with my sleeve like that would somehow erase any trace of what I’d done.

I walked back to the cafeteria and grabbed an apple from the lunch line even though there were only ten minutes left in the period.

The next day, I checked my new email account during study hall. There was a response from Mrs. Sutherland. She said we could meet during my study hall on Thursday and promised to keep everything we talked about private.

Reading those words made my chest feel less tight for the first time in days.

Then I started worrying about what I was going to say and how much I should tell her. I spent Wednesday and Thursday morning going over it in my head. I practiced describing the daily language schedule and the way Mom and Dad punished us when we messed up.

I tried to find words that would make her understand how bad it really was without sounding like I was making things up or being dramatic.

I was scared that if I said too much, they’d just send us back home again like the judge did last time.

On Saturday morning, Dad asked to see my phone while we were eating breakfast.

My whole body went cold because I forgot to delete the email conversation.

He scrolled through my school email, and I watched his face get more focused as he read. I reached across the table, took the phone back quickly, and said I was just emailing my science teacher about homework.

Dad stared at me for a long moment. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

He grunted, told me to stay focused on languages, and handed the phone back.

I waited until he left the kitchen, then I deleted every single email between me and Mrs. Sutherland. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the phone.

By Wednesday night, I’d made up my mind that I had to tell Mrs. Sutherland everything.

I lay in bed after my parents checked that I was asleep and whispered to myself about the schedule, the punishments, how tired I was all the time. I tried to describe what it felt like to get hit with a book, or to go to bed hungry because I used the wrong language.

I wanted to find the right words that would make an adult understand this wasn’t normal and we needed help.

Thursday afternoon, I went to Mrs. Sutherland’s office during study hall. She closed the door and asked me to sit down.

I rolled up my sleeves and showed her the bruises on my arms from where Dad grabbed me last week. Then I turned around and lifted the back of my shirt to show her the bruise on my shoulder blade from where a textbook hit me.

Her face went pale.

She asked if she could take pictures. I nodded. She used her phone to photograph each bruise.

Then I told her about the English-only rule, about how we couldn’t speak English at all anymore. I described how Dad threw books at us when we made mistakes and how Mom made us go without dinner.

Mrs. Sutherland wrote everything down in a notebook. Her hand was shaking a little.

When I finished, she looked right at me and said she was going to help us. She promised that this time would be different.

Something cracked open inside my chest, and I had to blink fast so I wouldn’t cry.

Before I left, Mrs. Sutherland opened a drawer and pulled out a small MP3 recorder. She said it was from the lost and found and nobody had claimed it in over a year.

She showed me how to turn it on and how to hide it in my pocket so the microphone still worked. She said if I could record what happened at home, it would help prove what I was telling her was true.

I put the recorder in my jeans pocket and practiced walking around to make sure it didn’t show. It felt scary to have it. But it also felt like I was finally doing something real instead of just trying to survive.

The next week, I failed my science quiz because I was so tired I could barely remember what the questions were asking. I stared at the paper and tried to focus, but the words blurred together.

My teacher emailed my parents that same day about my declining grades.

That night, Dad exploded. He yelled at me in English about how I was wasting all the money they’d spent on tutors and how I was throwing away my future. I noticed he was breaking his own language rule by yelling at me in English, but I didn’t say anything because that would just make him angrier.

He said if I couldn’t do better in school and with languages, then I was worthless.

On Wednesday, Mom announced a new rule.

She handed me and Wyatt each a pair of earbuds and said we had to wear them all the time except during tutoring sessions and when we were sleeping. She’d loaded them with language lesson recordings that played on a loop.

I put them in and immediately heard a woman’s voice speaking French vocabulary words.

The voice didn’t stop. It just kept going and going with words and grammar rules.

I tried to do my homework, but the constant stream of French in my ears made it impossible to think. I started hiding in the bathroom just to pull the earbuds out for sixty seconds and hear silence.

Thursday afternoon, I was doing my homework in the kitchen while Wyatt had his Mandarin lesson with Isabella in the dining room. I could hear them through the doorway.

Wyatt was reciting something in Chinese, and then suddenly he just stopped.

I looked up and saw him staring at the wall with his mouth slightly open. He wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t moving at all.

Isabella leaned forward and said his name, but he didn’t respond. She looked worried and glanced toward the hallway where Mom and Dad stood watching.

Then she picked up her pen and wrote something in her notebook, and I could tell it wasn’t about Chinese grammar.

She was writing about what she just saw.

On Friday, Dad was yelling at us about our progress reports, and I remembered the MP3 recorder in my pocket. I reached down and pressed the record button through the fabric.

Dad’s voice got louder and meaner as he talked about sending us to that boarding school in Europe if we didn’t improve. He described how we’d be there for a whole year with no phone calls home and no visits.

His voice filled the kitchen. I kept my hand near my pocket to make sure the recorder was still running.

When he finally stopped yelling, I waited until I was alone, then I stopped the recording.

The next day at school, I went to the library and logged into a cloud storage account I’d created. I uploaded the audio file with shaking hands.

The progress bar moved slowly across the screen. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching.

When the file finished uploading, I felt like I’d just done something that might actually matter this time.

The next Wednesday, Mom and Dad called us into the living room after dinner. Dad had this weird, excited look on his face that made my stomach twist.

He explained they’d arranged a special immersion weekend where one of our tutors would stay at the house the entire time to make sure we were only speaking our assigned languages even at night.

Mom added that we’d sleep and shift so we could maximize our learning time.

My throat tightened. That meant there wouldn’t be any escape at all. Not even when everyone else was asleep.

I glanced at Wyatt and watched all the color drain from his face until he looked almost gray. His hands started shaking on the armrest of the couch.

Dad kept talking about how this would push us to the next level. Mom nodded along like this was the most reasonable plan in the world.

All I could think was that I wouldn’t even have my bed as a safe space anymore.

That Saturday morning, the tutor arrived with an overnight bag and set up camp in our dining room where he could monitor both of our study areas.

The hours blurred together with Russian vocabulary drills and grammar exercises. My brain got fuzzy from exhaustion.

Around 3:00 in the afternoon, I heard Dad’s voice getting louder from Wyatt’s area. I knew my brother must have mixed something up. Dad was yelling about how Wyatt said an Arabic word when today was supposed to be Russian day.

His voice kept rising until I heard something crash.

Then there was a knock at the front door, and everything went quiet.

I peeked around the corner and saw Mr. Park from next door standing on our porch looking concerned.

Dad opened the door and his whole face changed like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, all smiles and friendly neighbor energy.

Mr. Park asked if everything was okay because he heard shouting. Dad laughed this fake laugh and explained we were just doing some intensive study sessions. You know how kids are. They need firm guidance to reach their potential.

I watched Mr. Park’s face. He looked uncertain, glancing past Dad toward where I stood in the hallway. Then he nodded slowly and said something about keeping the noise down.

Dad thanked him and closed the door.

My brief, stupid hope that someone would actually do something died right there in my chest.

The rest of the weekend dragged on with the tutor watching our every move. I barely slept at all during my designated rest periods.

By Monday morning, back at school, I felt like a zombie walking through the halls.

During lunch, I hid in the computer lab and created an anonymous account on a teen support forum I’d found last week. My hands shook as I typed out a post describing the language schedule without using any real names or details that could identify us.

I wrote about the constant pressure, the punishments, the feeling of never being able to relax even for a second. Just getting the words out to people who might understand loosened something in my chest that had been tight for weeks.

I checked back during study hall and there were already three responses.

They all said basically the same thing: this isn’t normal. Parents shouldn’t treat their kids this way. I’m not crazy for thinking something is wrong.

Reading those words from strangers who had no reason to lie to me felt like someone finally turned on a light in a dark room.

On Wednesday, Mrs. Sutherland called me to her office during my free period. When I got there, she was smiling in a way that made me think something good might be happening.

She told me she’d been making calls and she connected with a child advocate attorney who worked with kids in difficult family situations. The attorney agreed to do an informal consultation about our case, and Mrs. Sutherland had already sent her copies of the photos and some of my documentation.

She explained that just because the previous CPS case got closed didn’t mean we couldn’t report again, especially now that we had new evidence of ongoing problems. The attorney thought we might have a stronger case this time with all the documentation I’d been gathering.

Suddenly, I had an actual plan instead of just collecting evidence and hoping.

Mrs. Sutherland gave me the attorney’s contact information written on a sticky note. I folded it up small and hid it in my phone case.

By Thursday morning, I woke up with a slight fever. My head felt heavy and achy. I told Mom I thought I was getting sick and asked if I could skip my Arabic tutoring session.

She felt my forehead and said I was fine. Probably just tired from the immersion weekend.

The tutor arrived at 4:00. I sat at the kitchen table trying to focus on conjugations while my head pounded and my throat hurt. Every Arabic word felt like it was scraping against sandpaper and I had to keep stopping to swallow.

The tutor kept glancing at me with this uncomfortable expression, but he didn’t say anything to my parents who watched from the living room.

I realized in that moment that most adults would just look away rather than get involved, even when they could see something wasn’t right.

That weekend, I felt better physically, but the house was tense because Dad was in a bad mood about something at work.

On Saturday afternoon during my Japanese lesson, I heard him start yelling at Wyatt in the other room about his Russian pronunciation from yesterday.

I reached into my pocket and pressed record on my phone just as something crashed against the wall.

Dad’s voice got louder. I heard him threatening to send Wyatt to that boarding school in Europe if he didn’t start taking this seriously. There was the sound of another crash. He was throwing things.

When it finally went quiet, I waited until I was alone in my room that night and listened to the recording with my earbuds in. Hearing Dad’s voice that angry and out of control made me shake, but I saved the file carefully because this was exactly the kind of evidence that might actually make a difference.

On Tuesday of week eight, I was in math class when the intercom crackled and asked for Wyatt to report to the nurse’s office.

I spent the rest of the period worried about what happened.

At lunch, I found out from a kid in his grade that Wyatt had some kind of panic attack during science. Apparently he started hyperventilating and couldn’t calm down, and the teacher had to walk him to the nurse.

The nurse called our parents to come pick him up, and I watched through the front office windows as Mom arrived, looking annoyed.

Later, I learned from Mrs. Sutherland that the school nurse documented everything in Wyatt’s file and filed a report with CPS about concerns for his mental health, which meant the system was finally starting to pay attention again, even if it was moving slow.

Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, I was doing homework at the kitchen table when there was a knock at the door.

Mom answered it, and I heard her voice go high and fake-pleasant as she greeted someone.

I looked up and saw a woman in business clothes with a CPS badge clipped to her belt.

My heart started racing.

This was an unannounced visit, which meant they were actually taking things seriously.

I watched Mom and Dad transform right in front of my eyes into concerned, reasonable parents who just wanted the best for their children. They invited the caseworker in and showed her our study schedules posted on the walls, explaining their philosophy about the importance of multilingual education in today’s global society.

Dad pulled out the tutors’ contact information and credentials like he was presenting evidence of their dedication to our future. Mom talked about high academic standards and how sometimes kids need structure and discipline to reach their full potential.

The caseworker nodded and took notes and asked us a few questions, but with our parents standing right there, I couldn’t say anything real.

I watched the whole performance feeling hopeless because they were so good at this—at looking like normal parents who maybe pushed a little hard, but only because they cared.

After the caseworker left and said she’d be in touch, I waited until I was alone and texted Mrs. Sutherland using the code phrase we agreed on. I wrote that I needed to discuss my science project, which was our signal that something happened and she should request another surprise welfare check.

It felt good to have some control over the situation, even if it was just small moves in a bigger game where the adults held all the real power.

The next Monday, Isabella arrived for my Mandarin session, and she seemed nervous, fidgeting with her teaching materials more than usual.

Halfway through the lesson, when Mom stepped into the kitchen to take a phone call, Isabella did something brave. She tore a tiny piece of paper from her notebook and wrote something on it quickly, then slid it across the table while whispering in Mandarin that if I ever needed help to contact her.

I glanced down and saw a phone number written in small, neat digits.

I palmed the paper and slipped it into my shoe while nodding slightly to show I understood.

When the lesson ended and Isabella packed up to leave, I felt this surge of gratitude. At least one adult was willing to stick their neck out for us, even in this small, quiet way my parents hopefully wouldn’t notice.

Thursday morning, I was in the kitchen doing my Arabic homework when the MP3 recorder slipped out of my hoodie pocket and hit the floor with a plastic clatter.

Dad’s head snapped up from his coffee. He stared at the little black device lying there between us.

I watched his face change as he realized what it was, and my whole body went cold.

He grabbed it before I could move and turned it over in his hands, pressing buttons until he heard his own voice yelling from two nights ago.

The recorder exploded against the kitchen counter. Pieces of plastic scattered across the floor like shrapnel.

Dad screamed about betrayal and spying and how dare I record my own family. His face turned red as he picked up chunks of the broken device and threw them at me. One piece hit my cheek and I felt a sharp sting, but I didn’t move or speak.

I just stood there watching my evidence plan fall apart in front of me. All those hours of careful documentation destroyed in seconds.

Mom came running and demanded to know what was happening. Dad showed her the broken pieces, explaining what I’d been doing. She started crying about trust and how they’d given us everything and this was how we repaid them.

I kept my mouth shut about the cloud backups and the school Chromebook, because if they knew about those, they’d take everything away. I let them think they’d won.

Dad grounded me for a month and took my phone right there, going through it to delete anything suspicious. He didn’t find the cloud account because I used a different login.

That night, I lay in bed thinking about all the recordings still safe online. All the evidence they didn’t know existed.

By Friday, I’d completely changed my strategy. I used the school Chromebook during study hall to record conversations through its built-in microphone. The technology teacher showed us how to use the recording software for a project last month, and now I was putting that knowledge to work.

I created a new folder with an innocent name like History Research and saved all my audio files there with timestamps. Every day, I uploaded everything to the cloud before I left school.

So even if they took the Chromebook away, the evidence would be preserved somewhere they couldn’t reach.

The whole system felt like a lifeline—the only way to prove what happened behind our closed doors when no one else was watching.

I became methodical about it, keeping a spreadsheet of what I recorded and when, making sure I captured different types of incidents so there was a pattern.

During lunch, I sat in the library and organized my files, creating a timeline of abuse that someone official might actually believe. The librarian asked what I was working on, and I told her it was a family history project, which wasn’t exactly a lie.

I tested the microphone quality and figured out how to reduce background noise so the voices came through clearly. It felt like I was building a case against my own parents, and the thought made me feel guilty and powerful at the same time.

That weekend, Mom and Dad set up a livestream for distant relatives who wanted to see how much we’d progressed with our languages. They positioned a camera in the living room and made us sit on the couch in nice clothes while cousins and aunts and uncles logged in from different time zones.

For two hours, we performed—switching between French and German and Mandarin on command, answering questions about grammar and pronunciation.

I could see the viewer count climbing, Mom and Dad beaming like they’d created something amazing.

During a break when they thought the camera was off, Mom pulled me aside and hissed in English that I used a French word during the Spanish section. Her hand came up fast and connected with my face before I could react.

The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

My cheek burned. I blinked back tears while she adjusted the camera and called everyone back for more demonstrations.

What I didn’t know until later was that one of my online forum friends was watching the livestream and caught the whole thing. She screen-captured the moment with Mom’s hand in motion and my face twisted in pain. Then another shot showing the red mark on my cheek.

She sent me the images through a private message with a note saying she was sorry this was happening and asking if I was safe.

The evidence I didn’t even plan for landed in my inbox like a gift. Proof that someone outside our house witnessed what went on here.

On Monday morning before school, Wyatt cornered me in the hallway and whispered that he’d been thinking about running away. His eyes were red like he’d been crying.

He told me he couldn’t take it anymore. That he’d rather live on the streets than spend another day in this house.

I pulled him into the bathroom and locked the door, trying to talk sense into him while keeping my voice down. I reminded him we were only 11 and 13 with nowhere to go and no money. That we’d end up in way worse situations than the one we were in now.

He argued that anything would be better than this.

But I could see the fear behind his words. The desperation of a kid who just wanted the pain to stop.

I convinced him to trust my plan—to build enough evidence for CPS to remove us permanently this time—even though I wasn’t completely sure I believed it myself. I showed him some of the screenshots and told him about the audio files saved in the cloud, about the child advocate attorney who was reviewing everything.

Wyatt’s hands shook as he looked at the images on my phone. I realized how much pressure I was putting on him by asking him to hold on.

I promised him that if the plan didn’t work in two more weeks, we’d figure something else out together.

He nodded slowly and wiped his eyes. We left the bathroom separately so no one got suspicious.

All day, I watched him in the hallways between classes, making sure he didn’t bolt, praying he could hold it together just a little longer.

That Wednesday, I locked myself in the bathroom after dinner and carefully photographed the bruises on my ribs from where Dad shoved me into the table edge the night before. I made sure the date and timestamp were visible in the corner of each image, taking multiple angles to show the full extent of the damage.

The bruises were dark purple and yellow, spreading across my side in the exact shape of the table corner.

I pulled up my email on my phone and composed a message to the child advocate attorney through the secure address Miss Sutherland gave me.

Writing out exactly how I got each injury made me feel clinical and detached, like I was reporting on someone else’s life instead of my own. I described the argument that led to the shove, the impact of my body against the wood, the pain that made it hard to breathe for the next hour.

I attached all the photos and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

The email disappeared into the internet. I sat on the bathroom floor wondering if anyone would actually do anything with this information, or if it would just get filed away with all the other reports that didn’t help us the first time.

Mom banged on the door asking what was taking so long. I flushed the toilet for effect before washing my hands and coming out.

That night, the bruises throbbed every time I moved, but I didn’t take any pain medication because I wanted to remember exactly how this felt.

By Thursday afternoon, I got an email from the attorney saying she’d filed an emergency motion for an in camera interview where Wyatt and I could talk to the judge privately without our parents present. She explained this was our chance to tell our story directly to the person who made decisions about our placement.

The judge would ask questions about what had been happening, and we needed to be completely honest.

I felt hope and terror in equal measure, because this could either save us or make everything so much worse if it didn’t work. If the judge didn’t believe us or thought we were exaggerating, we’d go right back home, and our parents would know we tried to get away again.

The thought of their reaction if we failed made my stomach hurt.

I forwarded the email to Wyatt with a short message telling him to be ready to tell the truth when the time came. He responded with just a thumbs-up emoji, but I knew he was as scared as I was.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept running through everything I wanted to say to the judge, trying to find words that would make an adult understand how desperate our situation really was.

Everything changed on Friday when Mom and Dad called us into the living room before breakfast and announced they were withdrawing us from school to homeschool us.

Dad explained that public school was interfering with our language education, and they’d decided we’d learn better at home with full-time tutors. Mom added that this way, they could monitor our progress more closely and make sure we weren’t wasting time on subjects that didn’t matter.

I realized immediately what was happening—that they somehow knew something was going on, and they were trying to cut off our access to mandated reporters like Mrs. Sutherland.

Without school, we’d have no way to contact anyone outside the house. No opportunity to document what happened or send evidence to the attorney.

We spent the whole weekend trapped inside with no phone access and no computer time except for supervised language practice. The walls felt like they were closing in. I watched Wyatt retreat into himself, barely speaking, even during meals.

I tried to catch his eye to signal we’d figure something out, but he wouldn’t look at me.

Sunday night, I lay awake thinking about how perfectly they’d isolated us. How smart they were to realize the danger and shut it down before we could escape.

What I didn’t know was that Mrs. Sutherland filed a new report with CPS on Monday morning, citing the suspicious timing of our sudden withdrawal from school. She documented the pattern of our parents pulling us out right after the emergency motion was filed, noting that it looked like retaliation and an attempt to prevent us from accessing help.

She included copies of all the evidence I’d given her and requested an immediate welfare check.

I had no way of knowing any of this was happening because I was stuck at home with no contact with the outside world, but later I learned she refused to let our case drop just because we disappeared from campus. She called the attorney and they coordinated their efforts, building a case even without our direct involvement.

Mrs. Sutherland told the caseworker about the bruises she photographed, the audio recordings, the pattern of escalating harm, and insisted our removal from school was itself evidence of danger.

The homeschool schedule was absolutely crushing. Tutors arrived at 8:00 in the morning and stayed until 8:00 at night. Mom or Dad supervised every single moment—sitting in the room during lessons, watching us during breaks.

I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without one of them standing outside the door, asking what was taking so long if I was in there more than two minutes.

Wyatt and I communicated only in desperate glances across the table, trying to convey support and solidarity without words.

French tutor at 8:00. German at 10:00. Mandarin at noon. Arabic at 2:00. Russian at 4:00. Japanese at 6:00.

We got fifteen-minute breaks between sessions to eat something quick and use the bathroom.

My brain felt like mush by the end of each day, unable to absorb any more vocabulary or grammar rules. At night, I collapsed into bed too exhausted to even think about escape plans or evidence gathering.

The isolation was complete and suffocating. Every hour accounted for. Every moment monitored.

Late Tuesday night, I woke up at 2:00 a.m. and realized everyone else was asleep. I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and crept downstairs, avoiding the creaky spots on the stairs I’d memorized over the years.

I unlocked the back door and stepped into our backyard, the grass cold and wet under my bare feet.

I pulled out my phone, which I’d hidden in my pillowcase, and checked for Wi-Fi signals. Our neighbor’s network wasn’t password protected. I connected immediately, hands shaking, and opened my email.

I sent quick updates to Mrs. Sutherland and the attorney, explaining we’d been withdrawn from school and were being homeschooled with constant supervision. I told them I had no way to gather more evidence or communicate regularly. I attached the screenshots from the livestream that my forum friend sent me.

Sitting in the dark grass, typing frantically before someone noticed I was gone, I felt like a spy in my own life—stealing moments of connection to the outside world.

A light turned on upstairs. I disconnected fast, deleted my browser history, and slipped back inside.

My heart pounded as I climbed the stairs and slid back into bed, praying no one heard me leave.

The phone went back in its hiding spot. I lay there in the dark knowing that message might be my last contact with anyone who could help us.

On Wednesday, I waited until everyone was at lunch and slipped into the hallway bathroom with my phone. My hands shook as I opened the camera app and switched it to video mode.

I walked back to the dining room where the dent in the wall was still visible from where Dad threw that book at Wyatt last week. I grabbed a ruler from the kitchen drawer and held it up next to the dent, making sure both were clearly in frame.

I hit record and spoke quietly but clearly into the phone. I said the date, the time, and explained what caused the damage. My voice sounded weird and formal, like I was giving a report, but I figured that’s what you’re supposed to do for evidence.

The ruler showed the dent was about three inches deep, and the paint was cracked around the edges.

I filmed for maybe thirty seconds, then stopped and watched it back to make sure everything was visible.

The video felt like insurance—proof that this was really happening and I wasn’t making it up or exaggerating.

I uploaded it to the cloud account immediately and deleted it from my phone just in case Dad checked my device again.

My heart pounded the whole time, because if they caught me gathering evidence like this, I didn’t know what they’d do.

Thursday evening, I was in the middle of my Russian lesson when I heard a car pull into the driveway.

The tutor kept going, but I saw Mom and Dad both get up and look out the window.

Their faces changed in a way that made my stomach drop.

Mom walked to the front door. I heard her voice go high and fake polite. Dad joined her and I caught the words police officers through the doorway.

The tutor stopped mid-sentence and we all sat there frozen.

A woman’s voice asked if she could come in and speak with the children. It was the CPS caseworker from before. I recognized her tone.

Mom said,

“Of course, they’re always happy to cooperate,”

but her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

Two police officers came in behind the caseworker and suddenly the whole energy of the house shifted. Dad couldn’t hide his anger even though he tried to smile. His jaw was tight. His voice had an edge to it.

The caseworker asked to speak with Wyatt and me separately, and our parents immediately started objecting. They said we were in the middle of important lessons, this was disruptive, they weren’t given proper notice.

But the caseworker just looked at the police officers and one of them stepped forward slightly.

Dad’s mouth snapped shut.

Mom’s fake smile stretched even wider.

The caseworker said it wouldn’t take long and asked us to come with her to the kitchen.

I felt the power dynamic shift, just a little—like maybe this time they couldn’t perform their way out of it.

During the interview, the caseworker sat across from us at the kitchen table while one officer stood by the door.

She asked Wyatt how he was doing.

Wyatt stared at his hands for a long moment. Then he started crying—not quiet tears, but full sobbing that made his whole body shake.

He told her about waking up every night from nightmares about the tutors. He described the panic attacks before lessons where he couldn’t breathe and felt like he was dying. He admitted he was scared all the time now—scared of making mistakes, scared of our parents, scared of the languages themselves.

The caseworker listened without interrupting and wrote notes in her folder. She asked if he’d seen a doctor about the panic attacks. He shook his head. She asked if our parents knew how bad it had gotten. He said they just told him to work harder.

I watched my little brother finally tell the truth about how much he was suffering and I felt proud of him and heartbroken at the same time.

The caseworker closed her folder and said she was recommending an immediate medical evaluation. A doctor needed to assess his mental health, and our parents would be required to take him within forty-eight hours.

Wyatt looked at me with this mix of relief and terror on his face.

Our parents were forced to take us to the pediatrician the next Monday. We sat in the waiting room and Mom kept coaching us in whispered French about what to say if the doctor asked questions. Dad read a magazine but his leg bounced up and down the whole time.

When we finally got called back, the doctor examined Wyatt first while I waited outside with our parents. The appointment took almost an hour.

When Wyatt came out, his eyes were red, but he looked calmer.

Then it was my turn.

The doctor asked me questions about sleep, appetite, stress levels. She was nice, but professional, taking notes on her computer. She didn’t directly accuse our parents of anything, but she documented everything carefully.

At the end, she told Mom and Dad that Wyatt showed elevated anxiety symptoms consistent with chronic stress. She recommended therapy and possibly medication if the symptoms continued. She noted it all in his chart with today’s date.

It wasn’t enough to trigger immediate action, but it added to the growing documentation of harm. Another piece of evidence in the case we were building.

On the drive home, Dad gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

By Wednesday, the attorney had secured an appointment at the Child Advocacy Center for forensic interviews scheduled for the following week.

The caseworker called to tell us and explained what would happen. Someone specially trained would talk to us about our home situation in a comfortable room with recording equipment. She told us to just tell the truth, and that the interview would be used to help the court understand what we were experiencing.

After she hung up, I spent days preparing myself mentally to tell everything to a stranger. I practiced in my head what I’d say about the schedule, the punishments, the fear that was constant now.

I thought about which recordings to play and which photos to show. Knowing this might be our last real chance to escape made every moment feel heavy.

Wyatt asked what he should say. I told him to be honest about the panic attacks and nightmares.

At night, I lay in bed going over every detail I needed to remember, every piece of evidence I’d collected, every moment that proved this wasn’t normal.

My mind wouldn’t shut off because I was terrified of forgetting something important.

Early Monday morning, before anyone else was awake, I snuck out of the house and walked to the school to retrieve a flash drive I’d hidden in my locker with copies of all my evidence.

The sun was just coming up. The streets were empty and quiet. My breath made clouds in the cold air.

The walk took about twenty minutes, and the whole time I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see Dad’s car.

The school building was locked, but I knew which side entrance sometimes didn’t latch properly. I slipped inside. The hallways were dark and echoed with every step.

My locker combination took three tries because my hands were shaking.

The flash drive was right where I left it, taped to the back panel behind my textbooks. I grabbed it and shoved it deep in my pocket.

Getting it felt like a small victory, like I’d outsmarted them—at least in this one small way.

Dad had confiscated my bags and devices, but he didn’t know about this backup.

On the walk home, I took a different route just in case, cutting through yards and side streets. I made it back inside and upstairs before anyone woke up.

The flash drive went into a new hiding spot inside the lining of my winter coat hanging in the closet.

Louise visited on Sunday, and I hoped she’d finally see what was really happening.

She arrived around noon and brought groceries like she was trying to be helpful. Mom and Dad were all smiles and gratitude, playing the role of reasonable parents with a successful adult daughter.

We sat in the living room, and Louise asked how our studies were going.

I wanted to tell her everything, but Wyatt shot me a warning look. So I said it was fine, and she seemed satisfied with that.

Then she launched into the speech about how grateful she was for her upbringing. She talked about how the language skills helped her career and made her stand out in job interviews.

She said,

“Mom and dad pushed her hard, but it made her stronger and more disciplined.”

She looked right at me and Wyatt and told us we were ungrateful for not appreciating what they were trying to do for us.

Something broke inside my chest.

She admitted she felt the same pressure growing up. There were times she wanted to quit, but she pushed through, and now she was glad she did.

I realized she was so deep in denial about her own trauma she couldn’t acknowledge ours. She’d convinced herself the fear and exhaustion and punishment were worth it.

And admitting we were suffering would mean admitting she suffered too.

After she left, I went to my room and cried.

The forensic interview on Wednesday was terrifying and relieving at the same time. The child advocacy center didn’t look scary from the outside, just a regular building with a small waiting area.

A woman introduced herself as the interviewer and led Wyatt and me to separate rooms.

Mine had comfortable chairs and soft lighting and toys on shelves, even though I was too old for toys.

The interviewer sat across from me and explained everything was being recorded, but it was just for the court, not for my parents to see.

She asked me to tell her about my home life.

I started with the schedule. Monday through Sunday. The different languages. The punishments for mistakes.

She didn’t interrupt or look shocked. She just nodded and asked gentle questions.

She wanted specifics about the punishments, so I described the slapping, the thrown books, the bruises. I showed her photos on the flash drive.

Then I told her about the recordings I’d made, and she asked if I could play some.

I chose the one where Dad threatened us about the boarding school. His voice filled the room, angry and mean. When it ended, she just nodded like she understood exactly how serious this was.

We talked for almost two hours. She asked about school, friends, sleep, food—everything.

By the end, I felt rung out, but also lighter somehow, like I’d finally told someone who actually listened.

Two days later, Isabella submitted a formal affidavit to CPS detailing the directive she received from our parents and her concerns about our welfare.

I didn’t know it was happening until the caseworker mentioned it during a phone call. She said the tutor provided a detailed statement about what she observed during her time in our home.

Reading her statement later through the attorney, I learned she documented Wyatt’s panic attacks during lessons, the visible injuries she saw on both of us, and the extreme pressure we were under. She wrote about how our parents monitored every session but couldn’t understand what was being taught.

She described the fear she saw in our faces and the way we flinched when our parents entered the room. She noted the language instruction was far beyond age-appropriate levels and the schedule allowed no time for normal childhood activities.

Knowing she was paying attention the whole time made me feel less invisible, like at least one adult saw what was really happening and decided to do something about it.

The emergency hearing happened the following Tuesday. The attorney told us to dress nicely.

We sat in a courtroom that was smaller than I expected—just the judge and some lawyers and a court reporter.

The judge reviewed all the evidence, including the recordings, photos, medical documentation, and witness statements. She listened to parts of the audio files through headphones. Her face stayed neutral, but her eyebrows went up at certain points.

She read Isabella’s affidavit and the pediatrician’s notes. She asked the caseworker questions about the home visits and the sudden withdrawal from school.

Our parents sat with their lawyer, looking tense and angry.

When the judge finally spoke, she ordered a safety plan.

Our parents had to reenroll us in school immediately, attend parenting classes twice a week, and submit to unannounced home visits from CPS. Any violation would result in immediate removal.

She also ordered we continue therapy, and the tutoring schedule had to be reduced to no more than one hour per day total.

It wasn’t removal, and part of me was disappointed, but it was more protection than we had before.

Mom and Dad had to sign the plan right there in front of the judge.

Walking out of the courthouse, I felt like maybe things might actually get better—or at least less worse.

That night at home, Mom and Dad barely spoke to us except to say the schedule resumed tomorrow, and we better not give them any reason to violate the plan.

I could see the anger in their faces. The way Dad’s jaw clenched when he looked at me. The way Mom slammed dishes in the kitchen.

After they went to their room, I pulled out my phone and searched for safety alert apps like the caseworker mentioned. I found one that connected directly to local police dispatch and let you trigger an emergency response with just two taps.

Setting it up took maybe ten minutes, but my hands shook the whole time because this felt huge.

The app sat on my home screen now. A little red button that meant I had power I never had before.

I could call for help instantly if Dad threw something or Mom locked us in our rooms.

The thought made my chest feel less tight, like I could actually breathe properly for the first time since we came back from foster care.

Wyatt asked what I was doing. I showed him the app, explaining how it worked. His eyes went wide and he nodded slowly. I could tell he felt the same relief I did.

We weren’t completely helpless anymore.

The safety plan meant our parents had to be careful now. And this app meant we could prove it if they weren’t.

The court paperwork included a referral to a trauma therapist.

By Wednesday, I was sitting in her office for my first session. The therapist was maybe forty, with glasses and a calm voice. Her office had soft lighting and comfortable chairs that didn’t feel like a doctor’s office.

She asked me to tell her what had been happening.

I gave her the short version about the languages, the punishments, the removal, and having to go back.

She listened without interrupting. When I was done, she explained what I was experiencing was a normal response to ongoing stress and fear.

She taught me a grounding exercise—name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste.

We practiced it together. By the end, I felt more present in my body instead of floating somewhere above it.

She said,

“My racing heart and trouble sleeping and constant anxiety aren’t signs that I’m broken or weak. They’re my body trying to protect me from danger that’s actually real.”

Hearing that helped, somehow. Like maybe I wasn’t as messed up as I thought. Maybe if I got away from the danger, my body would calm down eventually.

She gave me a worksheet with more exercises to practice at home and we scheduled another session for next week.

Everything fell apart the following Saturday during Wyatt’s morning tutoring session.

I was in my room doing homework when I heard Dad’s voice getting louder downstairs. That particular tone that meant he was about to lose control.

I grabbed my phone and opened the safety alert app just in case, then crept to the top of the stairs to listen.

Dad was yelling at Wyatt for messing up a grammar structure in Mandarin, saying he wasn’t trying hard enough and wasting everyone’s time. The tutor tried to calm him down, but Dad ignored her.

Then I heard the sound of something hitting the wall, and Wyatt crying out.

I didn’t even think. I hit the emergency button on my phone twice like the app showed me.

A message popped up saying police had been notified and my location had been sent.

I ran downstairs and found Wyatt on the floor holding his arm, and Dad standing over him with a textbook in his hand. The tutor looked shocked and scared. Mom came running from the kitchen asking what happened.

I stepped between Dad and Wyatt and told him I called the police and they were coming right now.

Dad’s face went from red to pale in about two seconds. He started saying it was an accident, Wyatt was fine, I needed to call them back and cancel.

I didn’t move.

Wyatt was still crying and I could see a red mark forming on his shoulder where the book hit him.

The tutor quietly packed up her materials and said she needed to leave. Mom begged her to stay and explain that this was just a misunderstanding, but the tutor walked out without looking back.

We waited in horrible silence for maybe fifteen minutes until two police officers knocked on the door.

They came in and asked what happened. I showed them the safety alert I triggered. They asked to speak with Wyatt alone, and he told them Dad threw the book at him during his lesson.

The officers took photos of the mark on his shoulder and the book on the floor. They wrote down the tutor’s name and contact information.

One officer told Dad that throwing objects at a child violated the safety plan and they were documenting the incident for the court.

Dad tried to argue it barely touched Wyatt and he was just frustrated, but the officer cut him off and said the judge would decide what happened next.

Watching Dad’s face as he realized the rules really had changed felt satisfying in a way I didn’t expect.

He couldn’t just do whatever he wanted anymore. There were actual consequences now.

By Monday morning, I was back at regular school for the first time in weeks, and it felt strange and wonderful at the same time.

Mrs. Sutherland met me at the office before first period and handed me a folder with my 504 plan inside. She explained that both Wyatt and I now had accommodations, including extra time on tests and assignments, permission to take breaks when we needed them, and a pass to come see her anytime.

She’d also arranged for me to eat lunch in her office if the cafeteria got too overwhelming.

Walking through the halls toward my first class, I heard students speaking English all around me. Nobody was monitoring what language I used or timing my responses.

I answered a friend’s question about homework in plain English and didn’t have to translate it in my head first or worry about using the wrong day’s language.

The relief was so strong I almost started crying right there by the lockers.

In English class, the teacher handed back an essay I wrote before all this happened. I got a B-minus, which normally would stress me out, but today it just felt manageable.

During lunch, I sat with some kids from my science class. They asked where I’d been. I gave a vague answer about family stuff.

Nobody pushed for details.

The normality of it all—the boring everyday routine of school—felt like the best thing that ever happened to me.

Wednesday at lunch, Wyatt was sitting with some kids from his grade in the cafeteria when I saw him suddenly stand up and start breathing too fast.

I dropped my sandwich and ran over as he grabbed the edge of the table, looking pale and scared.

A few kids backed away, uncomfortable, but two girls from his class moved closer, asking if he was okay.

I got down next to him and used the grounding exercise my therapist taught me, talking him through naming things he could see and touch.

One of the girls got the school nurse. She arrived with a paper bag for him to breathe into.

It took maybe ten minutes before Wyatt calmed down enough to talk. By then, half the cafeteria was staring.

The nurse walked him to her office and I followed, feeling embarrassed and protective at the same time.

After school, some kids whispered when I passed them in the hall. I knew they were talking about us.

But that night, I checked my messages and three different students had sent supportive texts saying they hoped Wyatt was okay and asking if there was anything they could do to help.

One girl wrote that her cousin had panic attacks too and shared some resources her family found helpful.

It was weird having people know our business, but also kind of nice not carrying this huge secret alone anymore.

Maybe having witnesses meant we were safer somehow.

Friday afternoon, the CPS caseworker pulled Wyatt and me out of class for a meeting in Mrs. Sutherland’s office.

She brought documentation of the weekend incident with Dad and explained that combined with the previous violations, she was recommending we be placed in foster care again.

She said our parents showed they couldn’t follow the safety plan, and our welfare was at risk if we stayed in their home. The recommendation would go to the judge next week.

I felt this weird mix of guilt and relief wash over me.

Part of me wanted to be safe and away from the constant fear of what Dad might do next.

But another part of me felt like I was abandoning my parents, even though logically I knew they created this whole situation themselves.

Wyatt looked scared when the caseworker mentioned foster care. I reached over and squeezed his hand.

The caseworker said we’d likely go back to the same foster parent who had us before since she was already familiar with our case.

That made it slightly less terrifying. At least we knew her. At least she was kind to us.

Mrs. Sutherland said she’d help us get our belongings from home and make sure the transition went smoothly.

Walking back to class afterward, I felt like I was in a dream—like this was happening to someone else and I was just watching from outside my body.

The following Monday, a social worker picked us up from school with garbage bags for our clothes and drove us to the foster home.

The foster mom opened the door and gave us both quick hugs, saying she was glad we were back, even though she wished it was under better circumstances.

The house looked exactly the same as I remembered—comfortable and quiet and normal.

She showed us to our rooms, which still had the same beds and dressers we used before.

Dinner was spaghetti.

She didn’t ask us to speak anything except English. She didn’t quiz us on vocabulary or grammar. She didn’t monitor what we said.

We just ate and talked about regular stuff like school and homework and what we wanted to watch on TV later.

The absence of pressure felt enormous. I didn’t know what to do with all the empty space in my head where stress used to live.

After dinner, I helped load the dishwasher. The foster mom thanked me, but she didn’t make it into a lesson or a test. It was just a normal household chore.

That night, lying in bed, I listened to the quiet house and realized I wasn’t scared about what tomorrow would bring.

Nobody was going to burst in and start yelling about languages or throw things or lock me in this room.

I was just going to wake up, go to school, come back here, do homework, and sleep.

The simplicity of it felt almost too good to be true.

Two weeks later, we were back in family court. The judge reviewed all the recent documentation, including the weekend incident and the tutor’s statement and the police report.

She extended our foster placement for at least six months and ordered our parents to complete parenting classes and anger management counseling before they could even have supervised visits with us.

The judge said in a stern voice that the safety plan was their opportunity to demonstrate they could parent appropriately, and they failed that test.

Mom cried in the courtroom.

Dad sat there looking angry and defeated.

Louise was there too. She glared at me like,

“This is all my fault.”

But I didn’t look away.

The judge’s ruling felt like someone in authority finally validating that what happened to us was real and wrong—not just us being difficult kids who didn’t appreciate our parents’ efforts.

Walking out of the courthouse afterward, I felt lighter, like a weight I’d been carrying for years just lifted off my shoulders.

The caseworker said we’d have check-ins every month and therapy would continue, but for now, we were safe where we were.

In my new school, I decided to take Spanish as an elective because I actually wanted to learn it now that nobody was forcing me.

The teacher was young and enthusiastic and made language learning feel fun instead of like a test I might fail. She taught us songs and games and cultural information about Spanish-speaking countries.

When I messed up a verb conjugation, she corrected me gently and moved on. No punishment. No anger. No disappointment.

The other students were learning at different speeds and nobody treated that like a moral failing.

I realized language learning could actually be enjoyable when it was your choice and when mistakes were treated as normal parts of the process.

During one class, we watched a video about a festival in Spain. The teacher asked what we thought about it. I answered in English without even thinking about it, and she was totally fine with that.

The freedom to use whatever language I needed to express myself felt revolutionary.

Maybe someday I’d actually become fluent in Spanish, but it would be because I chose it, not because someone threatened me into it.

After three weeks in foster care, Wyatt started sleeping through most nights without waking up from nightmares.

His therapist told the caseworker he was making good progress, even though he still had bad days sometimes.

I watched my little brother slowly relax and act more like a normal 11-year-old—laughing at dumb jokes and playing video games and complaining about homework in ways that felt wonderfully ordinary.

He was still anxious sometimes. Loud noises made him jumpy. But he wasn’t having panic attacks every other day anymore.

Seeing him get better made me feel like we made the right choice, even though it was terrifying to trigger that app and call the police and basically blow up our family.

The foster mom said healing isn’t linear and we’d both have setbacks. But the important thing was we were safe now and had time to figure out who we were without constant fear.

Some days I still felt guilty about what happened to Mom and Dad.

But then I remembered the bruises and the thrown books and Wyatt crying before his lessons.

And I knew we couldn’t have kept living that way.

We saved ourselves, and maybe that was enough for now.

Six weeks later, Mom and Dad finished their court-ordered parenting classes and the judge approved supervised visits at a family center downtown.

The first visit happened on a Saturday afternoon.

I sat across from them at a table with plastic chairs while a social worker named Mrs. Avery watched from a desk in the corner.

Mom kept her hands folded on the table.

Dad asked how school was going in this weird formal voice, like we were strangers at a job interview.

I told them school was fine. Wyatt said his math teacher was nice.

There was this horrible silence where nobody knew what to say next.

Mom started crying quietly. Dad put his hand over hers but didn’t look at us.

The whole thing lasted exactly one hour that felt like six.

Walking out to the foster mom’s car afterward, my phone buzzed with a text from Louise that was really long—like three screens worth of words.

I read the first part where she said she was sorry we got hurt, but she still thought languages were beautiful and maybe Mom and Dad just loved us too much in the wrong way.

The rest was her explaining how she turned out okay and how she was grateful for what she learned, even if the methods were harsh.

I didn’t know what to say back, so I saved the message in a folder and told myself I’d think about it when I was ready.

Maybe in a few months.

Maybe never.

One evening after dinner, I sat on the bed in my foster room with my laptop and opened the support forum where I first posted months ago, asking if my situation was actually abuse.

I created a new anonymous account and started typing out everything that happened—from the six-language schedule to the removal and court and coming back here.

My fingers moved fast across the keyboard. I didn’t stop to edit or make it sound good. I just let the whole story pour out in one long post that took me almost an hour to write.

I read it over once to make sure I didn’t include any identifying details, then hit submit before I could change my mind.

Within twenty minutes, people started responding with comments like,

“This is absolutely abuse and I’m so glad you’re safe now and your parents need serious help.”

Someone shared a similar story about their mom forcing them to practice violin eight hours a day. Another person said they reported their parents for educational abuse too.

Reading through the responses made my chest feel warm and tight at the same time, because these people believed me. They understood. Nobody was saying I was being dramatic or ungrateful.

There’s no happy ending to write because Mom and Dad were still doing supervised visits and Wyatt still had nightmares sometimes and I didn’t know if our family would ever be normal.

But typing out the truth and having people see it mattered in a way I couldn’t fully explain.

Walking home from my Spanish class the next Wednesday, I practiced saying migusta appren espanol out loud to myself, then immediately switched to English and said,

“I like learning Spanish just because I can.”

Nobody was monitoring which language came out of my mouth or timing how long I stayed in each one or threatening punishment if I mixed them up.

The freedom to choose felt like something I stole back from Mom and Dad, like reclaiming a part of myself they tried to own.

I thought about how healing probably isn’t about forgetting what happened or pretending it didn’t mess me up, but about deciding who I want to be now that I’m safe.

Maybe I’ll keep learning Spanish because I actually enjoy it. Or maybe I’ll quit and try something completely different like art or music.

The point is it’s my choice now, and that’s what matters most.

So yeah. That’s basically it. Nothing scripted, nothing perfect—just me talking through it. Thanks for sticking around. It’s always chill sharing these with you. Catch you again if you swing back.