At 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 eleven 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 thirteen, 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 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 sit there frozen, my hands pressed flat against the kitchen table to stop them from shaking. Dad’s eyes move from me to Wyatt and back again, waiting for one of us to mess up, to say something in English so he can prove his point. Wyatt stares down at his lap, and I can see his chest moving too fast, like he’s trying not to cry. The silence stretches out so long my ears start ringing. Finally, Dad pushes back from the table and walks out and Mom follows him without looking at us. I grab Wyatt’s hand under the table and squeeze it once before letting go because even that feels dangerous now.

We sit there for maybe ten more minutes not moving and then I get up and go to my room where the language schedule is already taped to my door.

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

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

I change into pajamas and get into bed, even though it’s only eight, because I don’t know what else to do. Through the wall, I can hear Wyatt moving around in his room, and I press my palm against the wall, wishing I could tell him we’ll figure something out. But I don’t even believe it myself.

The next morning, Mom wakes us up at six instead of seven. When I stumble into the kitchen, there are new schedules taped to every single wall. Kitchen, living room, hallway, bathroom, even inside the pantry. Everywhere I look, I see those six languages staring at me. Mom points to the Monday French schedule and says something in French that I’m pretty sure means we’re starting now. I force my brain to switch over and respond in French that I understand and she nods and hands me a bowl for cereal.

Wyatt comes in looking half asleep and Mom snaps at him in French to wake up and he flinches but answers back in French. We eat breakfast in French, get ready for school in French. And even though I’ve been doing this for years, it feels different now, heavier. Like the words are made of rocks I have to carry around.

At school, I can finally speak English again. And it’s such a relief I almost cry in homeroom.

By Tuesday night, I’m so tired I can barely think. The German tutor leaves at seven and I still have two hours of homework in German and I’m staring at verb conjugations that keep blurring together. My head drops forward and I jerk awake. Then it happens again. The third time I don’t wake up until Mom is shaking my shoulder hard enough to hurt. She’s yelling at me in German and I try to focus on what she’s saying, but my brain feels like mud. She makes me sit at the table and finish every single problem, standing over me the whole time to make sure I don’t fall asleep again. When I finally finish, it’s almost midnight and I have to be up in six hours. I drag myself to bed and pass out immediately. And then the alarm is going off and I feel like I haven’t slept at all. At school the next day, I can barely keep my eyes open during math class and my teacher asks if I’m feeling okay, but I just nod and try to sit up straighter.

Wednesday night, I wait until everyone is asleep and then I sneak into the kitchen where our backpacks hang by the door. My hands shake as I tear a tiny piece of paper from my notebook and write in English: We’ll get through this together. Just seeing English words that I chose to write, not because someone forced me, makes my throat tight. I fold the paper as small as it will go and slip it into the front pocket of Wyatt’s backpack, then hurry back to my room before anyone catches me.

Thursday morning is Arabic day and I’m exhausted before breakfast even starts. We sit at the table conjugating Arabic verbs out loud while Mom watches us and I see Wyatt’s hand go to his backpack pocket. He pulls out the tiny folded paper and his eyes get wide. Mom is looking down at her phone so she doesn’t notice when he reads it. For just a second, Wyatt looks at me and gives the smallest nod. So small I almost miss it. And then he goes back to reciting Arabic verb forms like nothing happened. But that tiny connection, that moment where we acknowledged each other in our real language, feels like the only true thing in this whole nightmare. I want to cry and smile at the same time, but instead I just keep conjugating verbs in Arabic and pretend everything is normal.

Friday afternoon at school, I’m walking to my locker when I have to stop and lean against the wall because I’m so dizzy from being tired. Mrs. Sutherland, my school counselor, comes around the corner and sees me there. She walks over and asks if everything is okay at home, and I want to tell her everything. I want to explain about the language-only rule and the schedules on every wall and how I’m getting maybe four hours of sleep a night and how Mom made me stay up until midnight finishing homework, but I’m terrified that if I tell her, she’ll call CPS again and we’ll go to court again and the judge will send us back again and next time it might be even worse. So I just say I’m having trouble sleeping lately and she gives me this look that says she knows I’m not telling her the whole truth. She asks if I’m sure and I nod and say I’m fine. And she tells me her door is always open if I need to talk. I thank her and walk away even though everything in me is screaming to turn around and tell her the truth.

That weekend during Sunday review—when we’re supposed to practice all six languages by switching between them—I’m so tired I forget which language I’m supposed to be using. Dad asks me a question in French and I start to answer in French, but then I turn to Wyatt and whisper in English that I can’t remember the word for something. It’s barely a whisper, just a quick quiet word, but Dad hears it.

He stands up so fast his chair falls over backward and I know I messed up bad. Before I can move, he grabs the thick Russian textbook off the table and throws it at me. The corner hits my shoulder hard and pain shoots down my arm. I fall sideways out of my chair and land on the floor. The pain is so sharp I have to bite my lip hard to keep from crying because I know if I cry it will make him angrier. Dad is standing over me yelling in English about how I broke the rule. And the irony that he’s yelling at me in English for speaking English would be funny if I wasn’t so scared. Mom comes in and starts yelling, too. And Wyatt is pressed back in his chair looking terrified. I get up slowly, my shoulder throbbing, and Dad tells me to go to my room and don’t come out until dinner.

I go upstairs and sit on my bed and pull my shirt down to look at my shoulder. There’s already a dark bruise forming where the book hit me. I stare at it and something shifts inside me. I can’t keep living like this. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. But I know I have to do something or I’m going to break completely.

Monday morning, I’m back in French mode, my shoulder still aching under my shirt. During lunch, I go to the library instead of the cafeteria, and I find my science textbook in my locker. I open it up and look at the inside of the front cover where there’s a pocket for papers. I take out a piece of notebook paper and start writing in English, and it feels like breathing after being underwater. I write the date and then I write, “Dad threw a book at me yesterday and it left a bruise on my shoulder.” I write about the language-only rule and about falling asleep during homework and Mom making me stay up until midnight. I write about being so tired I can barely think. When I’m done, I fold the paper small and slide it into the textbook cover pocket where no one will find it. I decide I’m going to keep writing everything down—every punishment, every time they hit us or don’t let us eat or make us stay up too late. I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet, but at least I’ll have proof. At least I’ll have something written in my own language that they can’t take away from me. The act of writing it makes me feel a little bit less powerless, like I’m holding on to a piece of myself, even though they’re trying to control everything else.

The next Wednesday, I’m in my room after school trying to start my Mandarin homework when I hear Wyatt’s door open. His Mandarin tutor, Isabella, is supposed to arrive in ten minutes. I hear Wyatt go to the bathroom and then I hear this sound that makes my stomach drop. He’s breathing too fast, these quick gasping breaths, and then he starts crying. I run into the hallway and find him sitting on the bathroom floor with his back against the wall, crying and hyperventilating. I drop down next to him and grab his hands, and I can feel them shaking. I start talking to him in English, whispering as quiet as I can because if our parents hear us, we’re dead. I tell him to breathe with me. In for four counts and out for four counts, the way the foster mom taught us during the two months we were in foster care.

Wyatt tries, but he can’t slow his breathing down. And he keeps saying in English that he can’t breathe. He can’t do this anymore. I keep coaching him through the breathing exercises, counting out loud in the quietest whisper I can manage. And slowly, his breathing starts to even out. His face is red and wet with tears and snot, and I use toilet paper to help him clean up.

The doorbell rings and I know that’s Isabella arriving for his lesson and Wyatt’s eyes go wide with panic. I tell him it’s okay, just get through this one lesson and I help him stand up even though his legs are shaky. We go downstairs together and Mom is already letting Isabella in and I can see Wyatt is still trembling. Isabella sets up her materials at the dining room table like always. But when she looks at Wyatt, her expression changes. His eyes are still red and puffy and his hands won’t stop shaking. Mom and Dad are standing in the doorway watching the lesson like they always do. But I see Isabella glance at them and something shifts in her face.

She starts the lesson in Mandarin, asking Wyatt simple questions, but she keeps looking at him with this concerned expression. Every few minutes, she glances toward the doorway where our parents are standing, and I can tell she’s seeing something she doesn’t like. Wyatt is trying to focus, but his voice keeps shaking when he answers her questions. Isabella writes something in her notebook, but I can tell it’s not about Mandarin grammar. She keeps the lesson shorter than usual, only forty-five minutes instead of an hour. And when she packs up her materials, she looks at Wyatt one more time with worry in her eyes. After she leaves, I wonder if she might actually help us, if she might be someone who would do something instead of just looking away like most adults do. But I don’t let myself hope too much because hoping just makes it hurt worse when nothing changes.

That weekend, Mom and Dad call Wyatt and me into the living room and tell us they have an announcement. Dad pulls out his laptop and shows us the router logs, all these pages of every website anyone in the house has visited. He says, “From now on, we’re going to check these logs every single night to make sure you’re only looking at language learning websites.” Mom says they’re also going to check our phones and tablets every night before bed to make sure we’re not wasting time on anything that isn’t helping us learn languages.

I feel the walls of the house closing in on me. Every possible way to reach the outside world is being cut off. No secret emails, no looking up anything that might help us. No connection to anyone who might understand what we’re going through.

That night, I lie in bed and my chest feels tight, like I can’t get enough air. I start breathing too fast and I realize I’m having the same kind of panic attack Wyatt had. I force myself to do the breathing exercises, counting in my head, and slowly the panic fades, but the fear doesn’t. The house feels like a prison that keeps getting smaller, the walls moving in a little bit more every day.

Monday morning, Isabella arrives for my Mandarin lesson, and I notice right away that something is different about her. Her hands are shaking a little bit when she sets out her books and papers, and she keeps glancing at me instead of starting the lesson right away. I’m wearing a short-sleeved shirt because it’s warm out, and the bruise on my arm from where Dad threw the book is visible, faded to yellow-green now, but still obvious. Isabella stares at it for a long moment and I see her swallow hard.

Mom and Dad are in the doorway like always watching us and Isabella starts the lesson in Mandarin. But a few minutes later, Mom says something about needing to check on dinner and she and Dad both step away from the doorway. The second they’re gone, Isabella leans forward and asks very quietly in English if I’m okay. Her voice is so gentle and concerned that I feel tears start to build up behind my eyes. I want to tell her everything, but I’m terrified. So I just shake my head a tiny bit and look down at the table. She reaches across and touches my hand for just a second. And then Mom and Dad come back and she switches back to Mandarin like nothing happened. But that small moment of someone asking if I’m okay in English, someone seeing me as a real person instead of just a language learning project, makes me want to cry with relief and sadness at the same time.

On Tuesday during lunch, I slip away from the cafeteria and head to the library instead of eating. My stomach feels tight, but I’m not hungry anyway. I find an empty computer in the back corner where nobody can see the screen from behind me, and I sit down and log into the school system. I create a new email account using a fake name that my parents won’t recognize if they somehow find it. My hands shake a little as I type Mrs. Sutherland’s school email address into the recipient field. I keep the message short and vague because I’m scared someone else might read it. I write that things at home have gotten worse with the language situation and ask if we can talk privately sometime soon. I read it three times to make sure I haven’t said anything too specific that could get me in trouble. Then I click send and watch the message disappear from the outbox. I open the browser history and delete every single entry from the past hour. I clear the cache and cookies too just to be safe. Then I log out of the computer and wipe the keyboard with my sleeve like that will somehow erase any trace of what I just did. I walk back to the cafeteria and grab an apple from the lunch line even though there’s only ten minutes left in the period.

The next day, I check my new email account during study hall and there’s a response from Mrs. Sutherland. She says we can meet during my study hall on Thursday and promises to keep everything we talk about private. Reading those words makes my chest feel less tight for the first time in days. But then I start worrying about what I’m going to say and how much I should tell her. I spend Wednesday and Thursday morning going over it in my head. I practice describing the daily language schedule and the way Mom and Dad punish us when we mess up. I try to find words that will make her understand how bad it really is without sounding like I’m making things up or being dramatic. I’m scared that if I say too much, they’ll just send us back home again like the judge did last time.

On Saturday morning, Dad asks to see my phone while we’re eating breakfast. My whole body goes cold because I forgot to delete the email conversation with Mrs. Sutherland. He scrolls through my school email and I watch his face get more focused as he reads. I reach across the table and take the phone back quickly and say I was just emailing my science teacher about homework. Dad stares at me for a long moment and I can hear my heart beating in my ears. He grunts and tells me to stay focused on languages and hands the phone back. I wait until he leaves the kitchen and then I delete every single email between me and Mrs. Sutherland. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the phone.

By Wednesday night, I’ve made up my mind that I have to tell Mrs. Sutherland everything. I lie in bed after my parents check that I’m asleep and I whisper to myself about the schedule and the punishments and how tired I am all the time. I try to describe what it feels like to get hit with a book or to go to bed hungry because I used the wrong language. I want to find the right words that will make an adult understand this isn’t normal and we need help.

Thursday afternoon, I go to Mrs. Sutherland’s office during study hall. She closes the door and asks me to sit down. I roll up my sleeves and show her the bruises on my arms from where Dad grabbed me last week. Then I turn around and lift up the back of my shirt to show her the bruise on my shoulder blade from where a textbook hit me. Her face goes really pale and she asks if she can take pictures. I nod and she uses her phone to photograph each bruise. Then I tell her about the language-only rule and how we can’t speak English at all anymore. I describe how Dad throws books at us when we make mistakes and how Mom makes us go without dinner. Mrs. Sutherland writes everything down in a notebook and her hand is shaking a little. When I finish talking, she looks right at me and says she’s going to help us. She promises that this time will be different. I feel something crack open inside my chest and I have to blink really fast so I don’t cry.

Before I leave, Mrs. Sutherland opens a drawer and pulls out a small MP3 recorder. She says it’s from the lost and found and nobody has claimed it in over a year. She shows me how to turn it on and how to hide it in my pocket so the microphone still works. She says if I can record what happens at home, it will help prove what I’m telling her is true. I put the recorder in my jeans pocket and practice walking around to make sure it doesn’t show. It feels scary to have it, but also like I’m finally doing something real instead of just trying to survive.

The next week, I fail my science quiz because I’m so tired I can barely remember what the questions are asking. I stare at the paper and try to focus, but the words just blur together. My teacher emails my parents that same day about my declining grades. That night, Dad explodes. He yells at me in English about how I’m wasting all the money they’ve spent on tutors and how I’m throwing away my future. I notice he’s breaking his own language rule by yelling at me in English, but I don’t say anything because that would just make him angrier. He says if I can’t do better in school and with languages, then I’m worthless.

On Wednesday, Mom announces a new rule. She hands me and Wyatt each a pair of earbuds and says we have to wear them all the time except during tutoring sessions and when we’re sleeping. She’s loaded them with language lesson recordings that play on a loop. I put them in and immediately hear a woman’s voice speaking French vocabulary words. The voice doesn’t stop. It just keeps going and going with words and grammar rules. I try to do my homework, but the constant stream of French in my ears makes it impossible to think. I start hiding in the bathroom just to pull the earbuds out for sixty seconds and hear silence.

Thursday afternoon, I’m doing my homework in the kitchen when Wyatt has his Mandarin lesson with Isabella in the dining room. I can hear them through the doorway. Wyatt is reciting something in Chinese and then suddenly he just stops. I look up and see him staring at the wall with his mouth slightly open. He’s not blinking or moving at all. Isabella leans forward and says his name, but he doesn’t respond. She looks really worried and glances toward the hallway where Mom and Dad are standing and watching. Then she picks up her pen and writes something in her notebook and I can tell it’s not about Chinese grammar. She’s writing about what she just saw.

On Friday, Dad is yelling at us about our progress reports and I remember the MP3 recorder in my pocket. I reach down and press the record button through the fabric. Dad’s voice gets louder and meaner as he talks about sending us to that boarding school in Europe if we don’t improve. He describes how we’ll be there for a whole year with no phone calls home and no visits. His voice fills the kitchen and I keep my hand near my pocket to make sure the recorder is still running. When he finally stops yelling, I wait until I’m alone and then I stop the recording. The next day at school, I go to the library and log into a cloud storage account I created. I upload the audio file with shaking hands. The progress bar moves slowly across the screen and I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody is watching. When the file finishes uploading, I feel like I’ve just done something that might actually matter this time.

The next Wednesday, Mom and Dad call us into the living room after dinner and Dad has this weird excited look on his face that makes my stomach twist. He explains they’ve arranged for a special immersion weekend where one of our tutors will stay at the house the entire time to make sure we’re only speaking our assigned languages even at night. Mom adds that we’ll sleep in shifts so we can maximize our learning time and my throat gets tight because that means there won’t be any escape at all, not even when everyone else is asleep. I glance at Wyatt and watch all the color drain from his face until he looks almost gray and his hands start shaking on the armrest of the couch. Dad keeps talking about how this will really push us to the next level. And Mom nods along like this is the most reasonable plan in the world, but all I can think about is how I won’t even have my bed as a safe space anymore.

That Saturday morning, the tutor arrives with an overnight bag and sets up camp in our dining room where he can monitor both of our study areas. The hours blur together with Russian vocabulary drills and grammar exercises, and I can feel my brain getting fuzzy from exhaustion. Around three in the afternoon, I hear Dad’s voice getting louder from Wyatt’s area, and I know my brother must have mixed something up. Dad is yelling about how Wyatt said an Arabic word when today is supposed to be Russian day, and his voice keeps rising until I hear something crash. Then there’s a knock at the front door, and everything goes quiet. I peek around the corner and see Mr. Park from next door standing on our porch looking concerned. Dad opens the door and his whole face changes like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, all smiles and friendly neighbor energy. Mr. Park asks if everything is okay because he heard shouting and Dad laughs this fake laugh and explains we’re just doing some intensive study sessions. You know how kids are. They need firm guidance to reach their potential. I watch Mr. Park’s face and he looks uncertain, glancing past Dad toward where I’m standing in the hallway. But then he nods slowly and says something about keeping the noise down. Dad thanks him and closes the door and my brief stupid hope that someone would actually do something dies right there in my chest.

The rest of the weekend drags on with the tutor watching our every move, and I barely sleep at all during my designated rest periods.

By Monday morning, back at school, I feel like a zombie walking through the halls. During lunch, I hide in the computer lab and create an anonymous account on a teen support forum I found last week. My hands shake as I type out a post describing the language schedule without using any real names or details that could identify us. I write about the constant pressure and the punishments and the feeling of never being able to relax even for a second. Just getting the words out to people who might understand makes something loosen in my chest that’s been tight for weeks. I check back during study hall and there are already three responses and they all say basically the same thing: that this isn’t normal, that parents shouldn’t treat their kids this way, that I’m not crazy for thinking something is wrong. Reading those words from strangers who have no reason to lie to me feels like someone finally turned on a light in a dark room.

On Wednesday, Mrs. Sutherland calls me to her office during my free period. And when I get there, she’s smiling in a way that makes me think something good might be happening. She tells me she’s been making some calls and she connected with a child advocate attorney who works with kids in difficult family situations. The attorney agreed to do an informal consultation about our case, and Mrs. Sutherland already sent her copies of the photos and some of my documentation. She explains that just because the previous CPS case got closed doesn’t mean we can’t report again, especially now that we have new evidence of ongoing problems. The attorney thinks we might have a stronger case this time with all the documentation I’ve been gathering. And suddenly, I have an actual plan instead of just collecting evidence and hoping.

Mrs. Sutherland gives me the attorney’s contact information written on a sticky note, and I fold it up small and hide it in my phone case.

By Thursday morning, I wake up with a slight fever and my head feels heavy and achy. I tell Mom I think I’m getting sick and ask if I can skip my Arabic tutoring session, but she just feels my forehead and says I’m fine, that I’m probably just tired from the immersion weekend. The tutor arrives at four and I sit at the kitchen table trying to focus on conjugations while my head pounds and my throat hurts. Every Arabic word feels like it’s scraping against sandpaper and I have to keep stopping to swallow. The tutor keeps glancing at me with this uncomfortable expression, but he doesn’t say anything to my parents who are watching from the living room. I realize in that moment that most adults will just look away rather than get involved, even when they can see something isn’t right.

That weekend, I’m feeling better physically, but the house is tense because Dad is in a bad mood about something at work. On Saturday afternoon, during my Japanese lesson, I hear him start yelling at Wyatt in the other room about his Russian pronunciation from yesterday. I reach into my pocket and press record on my phone just as something crashes against the wall. Dad’s voice gets louder, and I can hear him threatening to send Wyatt to that boarding school in Europe if he doesn’t start taking this seriously. There’s the sound of another crash, and I realize he’s throwing things. When it finally goes quiet, I wait until I’m alone in my room that night and listen to the recording with my earbuds in. Hearing Dad’s voice that angry and out of control makes me shake, but I save the file carefully because this is exactly the kind of evidence that might actually make a difference to people who have the power to help us.

On Tuesday of week eight, I’m in math class when the intercom crackles and asks for Wyatt to report to the nurse’s office. I spend the rest of the period worried about what happened. And at lunch, I find out from a kid in his grade that Wyatt had some kind of panic attack during science. Apparently, he just 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 arrives, looking annoyed. Later, I learn 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 means the system is finally starting to pay attention again, even if it’s moving slowly.

Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, I’m doing homework at the kitchen table when there’s a knock at the door. Mom answers it, and I hear her voice go high and fake pleasant as she greets someone. I look up and see a woman in business clothes with a CPS badge clipped to her belt, and my heart starts racing. This is an unannounced visit, which means they’re actually taking things seriously.

I watch Mom and Dad transform right in front of my eyes into concerned, reasonable parents who just want the best for their children. They invite the case worker in and show her our study schedules posted on the walls, explaining their philosophy about the importance of multilingual education in today’s global society. Dad pulls out the tutors’ contact information and credentials like he’s presenting evidence of their dedication to our future. Mom talks about high academic standards and how sometimes kids need structure and discipline to reach their full potential. The case worker nods and takes notes and asks us a few questions, but with our parents standing right there, I can’t say anything real.

I watch the whole performance feeling hopeless because they’re so good at this—at looking like normal parents who maybe push a little hard, but only because they care. After the case worker leaves and says she’ll be in touch, I wait until I’m alone and text Mrs. Sutherland using the code phrase we agreed on. I write that I need to discuss my science project, which is our signal that something happened, and she should request another surprise welfare check. It feels good to have some control over the situation, even if it’s just small moves in a bigger game where the adults hold all the real power.

The next Monday, Isabella arrives for my Mandarin session, and she seems nervous, fidgeting with her teaching materials more than usual. Halfway through the lesson, when Mom steps into the kitchen to take a phone call, Isabella does something brave. She tears a tiny piece of paper from her notebook and writes something on it quickly, then slides it across the table while whispering in Mandarin that if I ever need help to contact her. I glance down and see a phone number written in small neat digits. I palm the paper and slip it into my shoe while nodding slightly to show I understand.

When the lesson ends and Isabella packs up to leave, I feel this surge of gratitude that at least one adult is willing to stick their neck out for us, even in this small, quiet way that my parents hopefully won’t notice.

Thursday morning, I’m in the kitchen doing my Arabic homework when the MP3 recorder slips out of my hoodie pocket and hits the floor with a plastic clatter. Dad’s head snaps up from his coffee and he stares at the little black device lying there between us. I watch his face change as he realizes what it is and my whole body goes cold. He grabs it before I can move and turns it over in his hands, pressing buttons until he hears his own voice yelling from two nights ago. The recorder explodes against the kitchen counter and pieces of plastic scatter across the floor like shrapnel. Dad’s screaming about betrayal and spying and how dare I record my own family. His face turning red as he picks up chunks of the broken device and throws them at me. One piece hits my cheek and I feel a sharp sting, but I don’t move or speak. I just stand there watching my evidence plan fall apart in front of me.

All those hours of careful documentation destroyed in seconds.

Mom comes running and demands to know what’s happening, and Dad shows her the broken pieces, explaining what I’ve been doing. She starts crying about trust and how they’ve given us everything, and this is how we repay them. I keep 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’ve won, that they’ve destroyed my only way of gathering proof. Dad grounds me for a month and takes my phone right there, going through it to delete anything suspicious, but he doesn’t find the cloud account because I used a different login.

That night, I lie in bed thinking about all the recordings that are still safe online. All the evidence they don’t know exists.

By Friday, I’ve completely changed my strategy and I’m using 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’m putting that knowledge to work. I create a new folder with an innocent name like “History Research” and save all my audio files there with timestamps. Every day I upload everything to the cloud before I leave school. So even if they take the Chromebook away, the evidence is preserved somewhere they can’t reach. The whole system feels like a lifeline—the only way to prove what happens behind our closed doors when no one else is watching.

I become really methodical about it, keeping a spreadsheet of what I’ve recorded and when, making sure I capture different types of incidents so there’s a pattern. During lunch, I sit in the library and organize my files, creating a timeline of abuse that someone official might actually believe. The librarian asks what I’m working on, and I tell her it’s a family history project, which isn’t exactly a lie. I test the microphone quality and figure out how to reduce background noise so the voices come through clearly. It’s like I’m building a case against my own parents, and the thought makes me feel guilty and powerful at the same time.

That weekend, Mom and Dad set up a live stream for distant relatives who want to see how much we’ve progressed with our languages. They position a camera in the living room and make us sit on the couch in nice clothes while cousins and aunts and uncles log in from different time zones. For two hours, we perform, switching between French and German and Mandarin on command, answering questions about grammar and pronunciation. I can see the viewer count climbing and Mom and Dad beaming like they’ve created something amazing.

During a break, when they think the camera is off, Mom pulls me aside and hisses in English that I used a French word during the Spanish section. Her hand comes up fast and connects with my face before I can react. The sound is sharp in the quiet room. My cheek burns and I blink back tears while she adjusts the camera and calls everyone back for more demonstrations.

What I don’t know until later is that one of my online forum friends is watching the live stream and catches the whole thing. She screen captures 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 sends me the images through a private message with a note saying she’s sorry this is happening and asking if I’m safe. The evidence I didn’t even plan for lands in my inbox like a gift—proof that someone outside our house witnessed what goes on here.

On Monday morning before school, Wyatt corners me in the hallway and whispers that he’s been thinking about running away. His eyes are red like he’s been crying, and he tells me he can’t take it anymore, that he’d rather live on the streets than spend another day in this house. I pull him into the bathroom and lock the door, trying to talk sense into him while keeping my voice down. I remind him we’re only eleven and thirteen with nowhere to go and no money, that we’d end up in way worse situations than we’re in now. He argues that anything would be better than this, but I can see the fear behind his words, the desperation of a kid who just wants the pain to stop.

I convince him to trust my plan—to build enough evidence for CPS to remove us permanently this time—even though I’m not completely sure I believe it myself. I show him some of the screenshots and tell him about the audio files saved in the cloud, about the child advocate attorney who’s reviewing everything. Wyatt’s hands shake as he looks at the images on my phone, and I realize how much pressure I’m putting on him by asking him to hold on. I promise him that if the plan doesn’t work in two more weeks, we’ll figure something else out together. He nods slowly and wipes his eyes, and we leave the bathroom separately so no one gets suspicious. All day I watch him in the hallways between classes, making sure he doesn’t bolt, praying he can hold it together just a little longer.

That Wednesday, I lock myself in the bathroom after dinner and carefully photograph the bruises on my ribs from where Dad shoved me into the table edge the night before. I make sure the date and time stamp are visible in the corner of each image, taking multiple angles to show the full extent of the damage. The bruises are dark purple and yellow, spreading across my side in the exact shape of the table corner. I pull up my email on my phone and compose a message to the child advocate attorney through the secure address Mrs. Sutherland gave me. Writing out exactly how I got each injury makes me feel clinical and detached, like I’m reporting on someone else’s life instead of my own. I describe 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 attach all the photos and hit send before I can second guess myself. The email disappears into the internet and I sit on the bathroom floor wondering if anyone will actually do anything with this information or if it’ll just get filed away with all the other reports that didn’t help us the first time. Mom bangs on the door asking what’s taking so long and I flush the toilet for effect before washing my hands and coming out. That night, the bruises throb every time I move, but I don’t take any pain medication because I want to remember exactly how this feels.

By Thursday afternoon, I get an email from the attorney saying she’s filed an emergency motion for an in camera interview where Wyatt and I can talk to the judge privately without our parents present. She explains that this is our chance to tell our story directly to the person who makes decisions about our placement. That the judge will ask us questions about what’s been happening and we need to be completely honest. I feel hope and terror in equal measure because this could either save us or make everything so much worse if it doesn’t work. If the judge doesn’t believe us or thinks we’re exaggerating, we’ll go right back home and our parents will know we tried to get away again. The thought of their reaction if we fail makes my stomach hurt. I forward the email to Wyatt with a short message telling him to be ready to tell the truth when the time comes. He responds with just a thumbs-up emoji, but I know he’s as scared as I am.

That night, I can’t sleep, running through everything I want to say to the judge, trying to find words that will make an adult understand how desperate our situation really is.

Everything changes on Friday when Mom and Dad call us into the living room before breakfast and announce they’re withdrawing us from school to homeschool us. Dad explains that public school is interfering with our language education, and they’ve decided we’ll learn better at home with full-time tutors. Mom adds that this way, they can monitor our progress more closely and make sure we’re not wasting time on subjects that don’t matter.

I realize immediately what’s happening. They somehow know something is going on and they’re trying to cut off our access to mandated reporters like Mrs. Sutherland. Without school, we’ll have no way to contact anyone outside the house. No opportunity to document what happens or send evidence to the attorney. We spend the whole weekend trapped inside with no phone access and no computer time except for supervised language practice. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I watch Wyatt retreating into himself, barely speaking, even during meals. I try to catch his eye to signal that we’ll figure something out, but he won’t look at me. Sunday night, I lie awake thinking about how perfectly they’ve isolated us, how smart they were to realize the danger and shut it down before we could escape.

What I don’t know is that Mrs. Sutherland files a new report with CPS on Monday morning, citing the suspicious timing of our sudden withdrawal from school. She documents the pattern of our parents pulling us out right after the emergency motion was filed, noting that this appears to be retaliation and an attempt to prevent us from accessing help. She includes copies of all the evidence I’ve given her and requests an immediate welfare check. I have no way of knowing any of this is happening because I’m stuck at home with no contact with the outside world. But later, I’ll learn that she refused to let our case drop just because we disappeared from campus. She calls the attorney and they coordinate their efforts, building a case even without our direct involvement. Mrs. Sutherland tells the case worker about the bruises she photographed, the audio recordings, the pattern of escalating abuse, and insists that our removal from school is itself evidence of danger.

The homeschool schedule is absolutely crushing with tutors arriving at eight in the morning and staying until eight at night. Mom or Dad supervises every single moment, sitting in the room during lessons and watching us during breaks. I can’t even go to the bathroom without one of them standing outside the door, asking what’s taking so long if I’m in there more than two minutes. Wyatt and I communicate only in desperate glances across the table, trying to convey support and solidarity without words. The French tutor comes at eight, followed by German at ten, Mandarin at noon, Arabic at two, Russian at four, and Japanese at six. We get fifteen-minute breaks between sessions to eat something quick and use the bathroom. My brain feels like mush by the end of each day, unable to absorb any more vocabulary or grammar rules. At night, I collapse into bed, too exhausted to even think about escape plans or evidence gathering. The isolation is complete and suffocating, every hour accounted for, every moment monitored.

Late Tuesday night, I wake up at two in the morning and realize everyone else is asleep. I slip out of bed as quietly as possible and creep downstairs, avoiding the creaky spots on the stairs that I’ve memorized over the years. I unlock the back door and step into our backyard, the grass cold and wet under my bare feet. I pull out my phone, which I’d hidden in my pillowcase, and check for Wi‑Fi signals. Our neighbor’s network isn’t password protected, and I connect immediately, my hands shaking as I open my email. I send quick updates to Mrs. Sutherland and the attorney explaining that we’ve been withdrawn from school and are being homeschooled with constant supervision. I tell them I have no way to gather more evidence or communicate regularly. I attach the screenshots from the live stream that my forum friend sent me. Sitting in the dark grass, typing frantically before someone notices I’m gone, I feel like a spy in my own life, stealing moments of connection to the outside world. A light turns on upstairs and I quickly disconnect, delete my browser history and slip back inside. My heart pounds as I climb the stairs and slide back into bed, praying no one heard me leave. The phone goes back in its hiding spot and I lie there in the dark, knowing that message might be my last contact with anyone who can help us.

On Wednesday, I wait until everyone is at lunch and slip into the hallway bathroom with my phone. My hands shake as I open the camera app and switch it to video mode. I walk back to the dining room where the dent in the wall is still visible from where Dad threw that book at Wyatt last week. I grab a ruler from the kitchen drawer and hold it up next to the dent, making sure both are clearly in frame. I hit record and speak quietly but clearly into the phone. I say the date, the time, and explain what caused the damage. My voice sounds weird and formal like I’m giving a report, but I figure that’s what you’re supposed to do for evidence. The ruler shows the dent is about three inches deep, and the paint is cracked around the edges. I film for maybe thirty seconds, then stop and watch it back to make sure everything is visible. The video feels like insurance, like proof that this is really happening, and I’m not making it up or exaggerating. I upload it to the cloud account immediately and delete it from my phone just in case Dad checks my device again. My heart pounds the whole time I’m doing this because if they catch me gathering evidence like this, I don’t know what they’ll do.

Thursday evening, I’m in the middle of my Russian lesson when I hear a car pull into the driveway. The tutor keeps going, but I can see Mom and Dad both get up and look out the window. Their faces change in a way that makes my stomach drop. Mom walks to the front door and I hear her voice go high and fake polite. Dad joins her and I catch the words “police officers” through the doorway. The tutor stops mid‑sentence and we all just sit there frozen. A woman’s voice asks if she can come in and speak with the children. That’s the CPS case worker from before. I recognize her tone. Mom says, “Of course, we’re always happy to cooperate,” but her hands are clenched into fists at her sides. Two police officers come in behind the case worker, and suddenly the whole energy of the house shifts. Dad can’t hide his anger, even though he’s trying to smile. His jaw is tight, and his voice has this edge to it. The case worker asks to speak with Wyatt and me separately, and our parents immediately start objecting. They say we’re in the middle of important lessons, that this is disruptive, that they weren’t given proper notice. But the case worker just looks at the police officers and one of them steps forward slightly. Dad’s mouth snaps shut. Mom’s fake smile gets even more stretched. The case worker says it won’t take long and asks us to come with her to the kitchen. I feel the power dynamic shifting slightly. Like maybe this time they can’t just perform their way out of it.

During the interview, the case worker sits across from us at the kitchen table while one officer stands by the door. She asks Wyatt how he’s doing and he just stares at his hands for a long moment. Then he starts crying. Not quiet tears, but full sobbing that makes his whole body shake. He tells her about waking up every night from nightmares about the tutors. He describes the panic attacks before lessons where he can’t breathe and feels like he’s dying. He admits he’s scared all the time now—scared of making mistakes, scared of our parents, scared of the languages themselves. The case worker listens without interrupting and writes notes in her folder. She asks if he’s seen a doctor about the panic attacks, and he shakes his head. She asks if our parents know how bad it’s gotten, and he says they just tell him to work harder.

I watch my little brother finally tell the truth about how much he’s suffering, and I feel proud of him and heartbroken at the same time.

The case worker closes her folder and says she’s recommending an immediate medical evaluation. She says a doctor needs to assess his mental health and that our parents will be required to take him within forty‑eight hours. Wyatt looks at me with this mix of relief and terror on his face.

Our parents are forced to take us to the pediatrician the next Monday. We sit in the waiting room and Mom keeps coaching us in whispered French about what to say if the doctor asks questions. Dad reads a magazine, but his leg bounces up and down the whole time. When we finally get called back, the doctor examines Wyatt first while I wait outside with our parents. The appointment takes almost an hour. When Wyatt comes out, his eyes are red, but he looks calmer. Then it’s my turn, and the doctor asks me questions about sleep, appetite, stress levels. She’s nice, but professional, taking notes on her computer. She doesn’t directly accuse our parents of anything, but she documents everything carefully. At the end, she tells Mom and Dad that Wyatt shows elevated anxiety symptoms consistent with chronic stress. She recommends therapy and possibly medication if the symptoms continue. She notes it all in his chart with today’s date.

It’s not enough to trigger immediate action, but it adds to the growing documentation of harm. Another piece of evidence in the case we’re building.

By Wednesday, the attorney has secured an appointment at the child advocacy center for forensic interviews scheduled for the following week. The case worker calls to tell us and explains what will happen. Someone specially trained will talk to us about our home situation in a comfortable room with recording equipment. She says to just tell the truth and that the interview will be used to help the court understand what we’re experiencing. After she hangs up, I spend days preparing myself mentally to tell everything to a stranger. I practice in my head what I’ll say about the language schedule, the punishments, the fear that’s constant now. I think about which recordings to play and which photos to show. Knowing this might be our last real chance to escape makes every moment feel heavy. Wyatt asks me what he should say, and I tell him just to be honest about the panic attacks and nightmares. At night, I lie in bed going over every detail I need to remember, every piece of evidence I’ve collected, every moment that proves this isn’t normal. My mind won’t shut off because I’m terrified of forgetting something important.

Early Monday morning, before anyone else is awake, I sneak out of the house and walk to the school to retrieve a flash drive I’d hidden in my locker with copies of all my evidence. The sun is just coming up and the streets are empty and quiet. My breath makes clouds in the cold air. The walk takes about twenty minutes, and the whole time I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see Dad’s car. The school building is locked, but I know which side entrance sometimes doesn’t latch properly. I slip inside and the hallways are dark and echo with every step. My locker combination takes three tries because my hands are shaking. The flash drive is right where I left it, taped to the back panel behind my textbooks. I grab it and shove it deep in my pocket. Getting it feels like a small victory. Like I’ve outsmarted them, at least in this one small way. Dad has confiscated my bags and devices, but he doesn’t know about this backup. On the walk home, I take a different route just in case, cutting through yards and side streets. I make it back inside and upstairs before anyone wakes up. The flash drive goes into a new hiding spot inside the lining of my winter coat that’s hanging in the closet.

Louise visits on Sunday, and I hope she’ll finally see what’s really happening. She arrives around noon and brings groceries like she’s trying to be helpful. Mom and Dad are all smiles and gratitude, playing the role of reasonable parents with a successful adult daughter. We sit in the living room and Louise asks how our studies are going. I want to tell her everything, but Wyatt shoots me a warning look. Instead, I say it’s fine, and she seems satisfied with that. Then, she launches into the speech about how grateful she is for her upbringing. She talks about how the language skills have helped her career and made her stand out in job interviews. She says Mom and Dad pushed her hard, but it made her stronger and more disciplined. She looks right at me and Wyatt and tells us we’re ungrateful for not appreciating what they’re trying to do for us. I feel something break inside my chest. She admits she felt the same pressure growing up, that there were times she wanted to quit, but she pushed through and now she’s glad she did. I realize she’s so deep in denial about her own trauma that she can’t acknowledge ours. She’s convinced herself that the fear and exhaustion and punishment were worth it, and admitting we’re suffering would mean admitting she suffered, too. After she leaves, I go to my room and cry.

The forensic interview on Wednesday is terrifying and relieving at the same time. The child advocacy center doesn’t look scary from the outside, just a regular building with a small waiting area. A woman introduces herself as the interviewer and leads Wyatt and me to separate rooms. Mine has comfortable chairs and soft lighting and toys on shelves, even though I’m too old for toys. The interviewer sits across from me and explains that everything is being recorded, but it’s just for the court, not for my parents to see. She asks me to tell her about my home life, and I start with the language schedule. I explain Monday through Sunday, the different languages, the punishments for mistakes. She doesn’t interrupt or look shocked, just nods and asks gentle questions. She wants to know specifics about the punishments. So I describe the slapping, the thrown books, the bruises. I show her photos on the flash drive. Then, I tell her about the recordings I’ve made, and she asks if I can play some. I choose the one where Dad is threatening us about the boarding school. His voice fills the room, angry and mean, and when it ends, she just nods like she understands exactly how serious this is. We talk for almost two hours. She asks about school, friends, sleep, food, everything. By the end, I feel wrung out, but also lighter somehow, like I finally told someone who actually listened.

Two days later, Isabella submits a formal affidavit to CPS detailing the directive she received from our parents and her concerns about our welfare. I don’t know this is happening until the case worker mentions it during a phone call. She says the tutor provided a detailed statement about what she observed during her time in our home. Reading her statement later through the attorney, I learn 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 that the language instruction was far beyond age-appropriate levels and that the schedule allowed no time for normal childhood activities. Knowing she was paying attention the whole time makes me feel less invisible, like at least one adult saw what was really happening and decided to do something about it.

The emergency hearing happens the following Tuesday and the attorney tells us to dress nicely. We sit in a courtroom that’s smaller than I expected, just the judge and some lawyers and a court reporter. The judge reviews all the evidence, including the recordings, photos, medical documentation, and witness statements. She listens to parts of the audio files through headphones, and her face stays neutral, but her eyebrows go up at certain points. She reads Isabella’s affidavit and the pediatrician’s notes. She asks the case worker questions about the home visits and the sudden withdrawal from school. Our parents sit with their lawyer looking tense and angry.

When the judge finally speaks, she says she’s ordering a safety plan. Our parents have to reenroll us in school immediately, attend parenting classes twice a week, and submit to unannounced home visits from CPS. She says any violation of the plan will result in immediate removal. She also orders that we continue therapy and that the language tutoring schedule must be reduced to no more than one hour per day total. It’s not removal and part of me is disappointed, but it’s more protection than we had before.

Mom and Dad have to sign the plan right there in front of the judge. Walking out of the courthouse, I feel like maybe things might actually get better, or at least less worse. That night at home, Mom and Dad barely speak to us except to say the schedule resumes tomorrow and we better not give them any reason to violate the plan. I can see the anger in their faces—the way Dad’s jaw clenches when he looks at me, the way Mom slams dishes in the kitchen.

After they go to their room, I pull out my phone and search for safety alert apps like the case worker mentioned. I find one that connects directly to the local police dispatch and lets you trigger an emergency response with just two taps. Setting it up takes maybe ten minutes, but my hands shake the whole time because this feels huge. The app sits on my home screen now. A little red button that means I have power I never had before. I can call for help instantly if Dad throws something or Mom locks us in our rooms. The thought makes my chest feel less tight, like I can actually breathe properly for the first time since we came back from foster care.

Wyatt asks what I’m doing, and I show him the app, explaining how it works. His eyes go wide, and he nods slowly, and I can tell he feels the same relief I do. We’re not completely helpless anymore. The safety plan the judge ordered means our parents have to be careful now, and this app means we can prove it if they’re not.

The court paperwork includes a referral to a trauma therapist, and by Wednesday, I’m sitting in her office for my first session. The therapist is maybe forty with glasses and a calm voice, and her office has soft lighting and comfortable chairs that don’t feel like a doctor’s office. She asks me to tell her about what’s been happening and I give her the short version about the languages and the punishments and the removal and having to go back. She listens without interrupting and when I’m done, she explains that what I’m experiencing is a normal response to ongoing stress and fear. She teaches me this grounding exercise where you 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 practice it together and by the end I feel more present in my body instead of floating somewhere above it. She says 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 helps somehow, like maybe I’m not as messed up as I thought. Maybe if I get away from the danger, my body will calm down eventually. She gives me a worksheet with more exercises to practice at home, and we schedule another session for next week.

Everything falls apart the following Saturday during Wyatt’s morning tutoring session. I’m in my room doing homework when I hear Dad’s voice getting louder downstairs. That particular tone that means he’s about to lose control. I grab my phone and open the Safety Alert app just in case, then creep to the top of the stairs to listen. Dad is yelling at Wyatt for messing up a grammar structure in Mandarin, saying he’s not trying hard enough and wasting everyone’s time. The tutor tries to calm him down, but Dad ignores her. Then I hear the sound of something hitting the wall and Wyatt crying out. I don’t even think—just hit the emergency button on my phone twice like the app showed me. A message pops up saying police have been notified and my location has been sent.

I run downstairs and find Wyatt on the floor holding his arm and Dad standing over him with a textbook in his hand. The tutor looks shocked and scared. Mom comes running from the kitchen asking what happened. I step between Dad and Wyatt and tell him I called the police and they’re coming right now. Dad’s face goes from red to pale in about two seconds. He starts saying it was an accident and Wyatt is fine and I need to call them back and cancel. I don’t move. Wyatt is still crying and I can see a red mark forming on his shoulder where the book hit him. The tutor quietly packs up her materials and says she needs to leave. Mom begs her to stay and explain that this was just a misunderstanding, but the tutor walks out without looking back.

We wait in horrible silence for maybe fifteen minutes until two police officers knock on the door. They come in and ask what happened, and I show them the safety alert I triggered. They ask to speak with Wyatt alone, and he tells them Dad threw the book at him during his lesson. The officers take photos of the mark on his shoulder and the book on the floor. They write down the tutor’s name and contact information. One officer tells Dad that throwing objects at a child violates the safety plan, and they’re documenting this incident for the court. Dad tries to argue that it barely touched Wyatt and he was just frustrated, but the officer cuts him off and says the judge will decide what happens next.

Watching Dad’s face as he realizes the rules really have changed feels satisfying in a way I didn’t expect. He can’t just do whatever he wants anymore. There are actual consequences now.

By Monday morning, I’m back at regular school for the first time in weeks. And it feels strange and wonderful at the same time. Mrs. Sutherland meets me at the office before first period and hands me a folder with my 504 plan inside. She explains that both Wyatt and I now have accommodations, including extra time on tests and assignments, permission to take breaks when we need them, and a pass to come see her anytime. She’s also arranged for me to eat lunch in her office if the cafeteria gets too overwhelming. Walking through the halls toward my first class, I hear students speaking English all around me, and nobody is monitoring what language I use or timing my responses. I answer a friend’s question about homework in plain English and don’t have to translate it in my head first or worry about using the wrong day’s language. The relief is so strong, I almost start crying right there by the lockers.

In English class, the teacher hands back an essay I wrote before all this happened and I got a B‑minus, which normally would stress me out, but today just feels manageable. During lunch, I sit with some kids from my science class, and they ask where I’ve been, and I give a vague answer about family stuff. Nobody pushes for details. The normalcy of it all—the boring, everyday routine of school—feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Wednesday at lunch, Wyatt is sitting with some kids from his grade in the cafeteria when I see him suddenly stand up and start breathing too fast. I drop my sandwich and run over as he grabs the edge of the table, looking pale and scared. A few kids back away, looking uncomfortable, but two girls from his class move closer, asking if he’s okay. I get down next to him and use the grounding exercise my therapist taught me, talking him through, naming things he can see and touch. One of the girls gets the school nurse, and she arrives with a paper bag for him to breathe into. It takes maybe ten minutes before Wyatt calms down enough to talk, and by then, half the cafeteria is staring. The nurse walks him to her office, and I follow, feeling embarrassed and protective at the same time.

After school, some kids whisper when I pass them in the hall, and I know they’re talking about us. But that night, I check my messages, and three different students have sent me supportive texts, saying they hope Wyatt is okay and asking if there’s anything they can do to help. One girl writes that her cousin has panic attacks, too, and shares some resources her family found helpful. It’s weird having people know our business, but also kind of nice not carrying this huge secret alone anymore. Maybe having witnesses means we’re safer somehow.

Friday afternoon, the CPS case worker pulls Wyatt and me out of class for a meeting in Mrs. Sutherland’s office. She brings documentation of the weekend incident with Dad and explains that combined with the previous violations, she’s recommending we be placed in foster care again. She says our parents have shown they can’t follow the safety plan and our welfare is at risk if we stay in their home. The recommendation will go to the judge next week. I feel this weird mix of guilt and relief washing over me. Part of me wants to be safe and away from the constant fear of what Dad might do next, but another part feels like I’m abandoning my parents, even though logically I know they created this whole situation themselves. Wyatt looks scared when the case worker mentions foster care and I reach over and squeeze his hand. The case worker says we’ll likely go back to the same foster parent who had us before since she’s already familiar with our case. That makes it slightly less terrifying. At least we know her and she was kind to us. Mrs. Sutherland says she’ll help us get our belongings from home and make sure the transition goes smoothly. Walking back to class afterward, I feel like I’m in a dream, like this is happening to someone else and I’m just watching from outside my body.

The following Monday, a social worker picks us up from school with garbage bags for our clothes and drives us to the foster home. The foster mom opens the door and gives us both quick hugs, saying she’s glad we’re back, even though she wishes it was under better circumstances. The house looks exactly the same as I remember—comfortable and quiet and normal. She shows us to our rooms, which still have the same beds and dressers we used before. Dinner is spaghetti, and she doesn’t ask us to speak anything except English. Doesn’t quiz us on vocabulary or grammar. Doesn’t monitor what we say. We just eat and talk about regular stuff like school and homework and what we want to watch on TV later. The absence of pressure feels so big I don’t know what to do with all the empty space in my head where stress used to live. After dinner, I help load the dishwasher and the foster mom thanks me, but doesn’t make it into some big lesson or test. It’s just a normal household chore.

That night, lying in bed, I listen to the quiet house and realize I’m not scared about what tomorrow will bring. Nobody is going to burst in and start yelling about languages or throw things or lock me in this room. I’m just going to wake up and go to school and come back here and do homework and sleep. The simplicity of it feels almost too good to be true.

Two weeks later, we’re back in family court and the judge reviews all the recent documentation, including the weekend incident and the tutor’s statement and the police report. She extends our foster placement for at least six months and orders our parents to complete parenting classes and anger management counseling before they can even have supervised visits with us. The judge says in a stern voice that the safety plan was their opportunity to demonstrate they could parent appropriately and they failed that test.

Mom cries in the courtroom and Dad sits there looking angry and defeated. Louise is there, too, and she glares at me like this is all my fault. But I don’t look away. The judge’s ruling feels 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 feel lighter somehow, like a weight I’ve been carrying for years just lifted off my shoulders. The case worker says we’ll have check‑ins every month and therapy will continue. But for now, we’re safe where we are.

In my new school, I decide to take Spanish as an elective because I actually want to learn it now that nobody is forcing me. The teacher is young and enthusiastic and makes language learning feel fun instead of like a test I might fail. She teaches us songs and games and cultural information about Spanish‑speaking countries. When I mess up a verb conjugation, she just corrects me gently and moves on. No punishment or anger or disappointment. The other students in class are learning at different speeds and nobody treats that like a moral failing. I realize that language learning can actually be enjoyable when it’s your choice and when mistakes are treated as normal parts of the process. During one class, we watch a video about a festival in Spain and the teacher asks what we think about it and I answer in English without even thinking about it—and she’s totally fine with that. The freedom to use whatever language I need to express myself feels revolutionary. Maybe someday I’ll actually become fluent in Spanish, but it’ll be because I chose it, not because someone threatened me into it.

After three weeks in foster care, Wyatt starts sleeping through most nights without waking up from nightmares. His therapist tells the case worker he’s making good progress, even though he still has bad days sometimes. I watch my little brother slowly relax and act more like a normal eleven‑year‑old, laughing at dumb jokes and playing video games and complaining about homework in ways that feel wonderfully ordinary. He’s still anxious sometimes, and loud noises make him jumpy, but he’s not having panic attacks every other day anymore. Seeing him get better makes 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 says healing isn’t linear and we’ll both have setbacks. But the important thing is we’re safe now and have time to figure out who we are without constant fear.

Some days I still feel guilty about what happened to Mom and Dad, but then I remember the bruises and the thrown books and Wyatt crying before his lessons. And I know we couldn’t have kept living that way. We saved ourselves and maybe that’s enough for now.

Six weeks later, Mom and Dad finish their court‑ordered parenting classes, and the judge approves supervised visits at a family center downtown. The first visit happens on a Saturday afternoon, and I sit across from them at a table with plastic chairs while a social worker named Mrs. Avery watches from a desk in the corner. Mom keeps her hands folded on the table, and Dad asks how school is going in this weird formal voice like we’re strangers at a job interview. I tell them school is fine, and Wyatt says his math teacher is nice, and there’s this horrible silence where nobody knows what to say next. Mom starts crying quietly and Dad puts his hand over hers but doesn’t look at us. And the whole thing lasts exactly one hour that feels like six.

Walking out to the foster mom’s car afterward, my phone buzzes with a text from Louise that’s really long, like three screens’ worth of words. I read the first part where she says she’s sorry we got hurt, but she still thinks languages are beautiful. And maybe Mom and Dad just loved us too much in the wrong way. The rest is her explaining how she turned out okay and how she’s grateful for what she learned, even if the methods were harsh. I don’t know what to say back, so I just save the message in a folder and tell myself I’ll think about it when I’m ready. Maybe in a few months or maybe never.

One evening after dinner, I’m sitting on the bed in my foster room with my laptop, and I open the support forum where I first posted months ago, asking if my situation was actually abuse. I create a new anonymous account and start typing out everything that happened from the beginning with the six‑language schedule through the removal and court and coming back here. My fingers move fast across the keyboard and I don’t stop to edit or make it sound good. Just let the whole story pour out in one long post that takes 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 can change my mind.

Within twenty minutes, people start responding with comments like, “This is absolutely abuse,” and “I’m so glad you’re safe now,” and “Your parents need serious help.” Someone shares a similar story about their mom forcing them to practice violin eight hours a day. Another person says they reported their parents for educational abuse, too. Reading through the responses makes my chest feel warm and tight at the same time, because these people believe me and understand, and nobody is saying I’m being dramatic or ungrateful.

There’s no happy ending to write because Mom and Dad are still doing supervised visits and Wyatt still has nightmares sometimes and I don’t know if our family will ever be normal. But typing out the truth and having people see it matters in a way I can’t fully explain.

Walking home from my Spanish class the next Wednesday, I practice saying “Me gusta aprender español” out loud to myself, then immediately switch to English and say “I like learning Spanish” just because I can. Nobody is monitoring which language comes out of my mouth or timing how long I stay in each one or threatening punishment if I mix them up. The freedom to choose feels like something I stole back from Mom and Dad—like reclaiming a part of myself they tried to own.

I think 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. Bye.