“My mother was pregnant with her seventh child… and when I refused to continue raising her children, she called the police to have me arrested as if I were a criminal.”

“I am only sixteen years old, but I haven’t had a full night of sleep in years because the babies call for me instead of her,” I added. My voice shook at the end, but I made sure they heard me when I said I left because I simply couldn’t survive another day.

The female officer’s expression softened as she moved from being a first responder to someone who truly understood the gravity of my life. Just as she was about to speak, another engine roared outside and a car screeched to a halt in front of the house.

A chill ran down my spine because I knew it was my mother, Lydia, before I even saw her reflection in the window. She stepped out of the vehicle with one hand resting on her pregnant belly and the other gripping her purse like a shield.

She wore the exact expression she saved for public audiences, playing the part of the suffering and sacrificing mother who was a perfect victim. She burst into the house almost in tears and cried out my name while pretending to be relieved that I was okay.