I’ve Spent 16 Years Locked Away Because My Parents Said The Air Would Kill Us. I Just Found Out It Was All A Lie To Hide The Fact That We Were Stolen. How Do I Save My Siblings Before They Catch Me?
That afternoon, when our parents are both busy, I gather my siblings in the playroom again and close the door. I tell them we need to create a code word system in case we need to communicate something urgent without our parents understanding.
We decide on a few simple phrases that sound normal but have hidden meanings, like “I’m really tired” means something’s wrong, and “did you finish your math” means meet in the bathroom. We also start preparing go bags with essentials like clothes and important items, hiding them in the backs of our closets where our parents won’t look.
My sister is finally starting to accept the truth about everything, and we all agree that we need to stick together no matter what happens next. My younger brother asks if we’ll ever see mom and dad again, and I don’t know how to answer that question.
So I just hug him and say, “We’ll figure it out together.”
The Walls Come Down
Later that evening, I remember seeing an old phone in the junk drawer in the kitchen a few weeks ago. I wait until our parents are watching TV and sneak down to grab it, then take it to my room and plug it in to see if it still works.
The battery is dead, but after charging for an hour, it turns on and I’m able to connect to our Wi-Fi. I find the missing person’s hotline number from one of the websites I looked at earlier and open the tip submission form.
My hands shake so bad I can barely type as I fill in the details about our address and the evidence in the shed. I attach several of the photos I took, making sure to include the newspaper clipping and the birth certificates.
After I write everything out, I read it over three times to make sure it makes sense, then I hit send before I can chicken out. The confirmation message says someone will review the tip within 24 hours and gives me a case number to reference.
I write down the number on a piece of paper, then turn off the phone and hide it in the bathroom air vent behind the metal grate. The next morning, mom and dad make an announcement at breakfast that we need to do a deep cleaning of the whole house.
They say the air filters need maintenance and they’re going to collect all our electronic devices to make sure nothing is interfering with the filtration system. I feel my stomach drop, but I keep my face calm and normal.
They go through each of our rooms one by one, taking phones and tablets and anything with a screen or battery. I’m so grateful I hid the important stuff because they’re being really thorough, checking drawers and under beds.
The atmosphere in the house feels different now: tense and watchful in a way it never has before. Mom keeps glancing at dad like they’re communicating without words, and dad seems jumpy and on edge.
That night after everyone goes to bed, I wait until after midnight, then sneak to the bathroom and retrieve the phone from the air vent. I turn it on with the brightness all the way down and create a new email account using a fake name.
I upload all the photos to a cloud storage account so they’ll be safe even if the phone gets found and destroyed. I also write down the tipline number and the case number they gave me on a small piece of paper.
Back in my room, I carefully pull up the corner of my mattress and find a small tear in the lining, then stuff the paper inside where no one will find it. Every precaution feels necessary now because I can tell our parents are getting suspicious, and I don’t know how much time we have left before something happens.
I wait three more nights before going back to the shed because I need to be absolutely sure everyone is sleeping deeply. At 1:30 a.m. on the fourth night, I slip out of bed and tiptoe down the stairs, avoiding the creaky third step from the bottom.
The grass is cold and wet again under my bare feet as I cross the yard. Inside the shed, I go straight to the filing cabinet and start checking for locked drawers I missed before.
There’s one at the very bottom that won’t open when I pull the handle. I use my bobby pin technique, and after about five minutes of careful work, the lock clicks.
Inside are official-looking documents with raised seals, and I pull them out with shaking hands. These are birth certificates, but the names are completely different from what I’ve been called my whole life.
The parents listed aren’t mom and dad. My real birth name is printed right there in black ink, and it feels like reading about a stranger.
I stare at it for a long time, trying to make it feel real. My siblings have different names too—names I’ve never heard before.
I take photos of each certificate, making sure the flash captures every detail clearly. In the same drawer underneath the certificates, I find an old photograph that’s bent at the corners from age.
Four small kids are standing in front of playground equipment, and I recognize that red slide from my earliest memory. I flip it over and someone wrote four names in blue pen along with a date from 13 years ago.
These must be our real names, the ones we had before we were taken. I match the names to the birth certificates, and everything lines up perfectly.
The evidence is right here in my hands proving that everything about our lives has been a lie. I take multiple photos of both sides of the picture, my hands shaking so badly I have to brace my arms against the filing cabinet to keep the camera steady.
I keep searching and find a big manila envelope stuffed in the back of the drawer. Inside are apartment lease papers from a city I’ve never heard of that’s three states away.
The dates are from the year before we disappeared according to the newspaper articles. There are also utility bills with the same address and what looks like printed maps with notes scribbled in the margins.
Someone circled certain playgrounds and parks in red pen and drew roots between them. Looking at this makes me feel sick to my stomach because it shows how much planning went into taking us.
This wasn’t some sudden mistake or bad decision; they spent months figuring out where to find kids and how to grab us without getting caught. I photograph everything in the envelope, then put it all back exactly how I found it and close the drawer.
My legs feel weak as I walk back to the house. I go straight to my siblings’ rooms and wake them up one by one, putting my finger to my lips so they stay quiet.
We gather in the room we share for playing games, and I show them the photos on my phone. My younger brother starts crying right away when he sees the birth certificates.
My sister takes his hand and squeezes it while we all crowd around the small screen. We whisper about these names that belong to us, trying them out quietly to see how they sound.
None of them feel right because we’ve never heard them before. We’re looking at our own identities like they’re artifacts from someone else’s life.
My sister keeps staring at her real name and touching the screen like she can’t believe it’s real. The sun is just starting to come up when we finally go back to our rooms.
I hide my phone again and try to sleep, but I’m too wired. At breakfast a few hours later, dad makes an announcement that sounds casual but feels dangerous.
He says, “We need to do extra filter maintenance for the whole next week everyone has to stay in their rooms except for meals no exceptions.”
Mom nods along, but she looks stressed and keeps glancing at dad like they’ve been talking about something serious. The way they’re acting makes me think they know I’ve been snooping around, even though I’ve been so careful.
This sudden lockdown feels like a trap closing around us. During lunch the next day, I have maybe 10 minutes out of my room while mom is in the bathroom and dad is on a work call.
I grab a piece of paper and write as fast as I can, asking for a welfare check at our address. I explain that we’re being held inside against our will and need help urgently.
I fold it up and address it to Heidi Nolan across the street because she’s watched us through the windows for years and might believe something is wrong. When I take the trash out to the curb, I slip the note through her mail slot, my heart beating so hard I can barely breathe.
It’s a huge risk, but we’re running out of time and options. From my bedroom window later that afternoon, I watch Heidi’s front porch.
She comes out to get her mail, and I see her notice the paper that wasn’t there this morning. She picks it up and reads it right there on her porch, then she looks up at our house for what feels like forever.
I stay back from the window so she can’t see me clearly, but I think she knows I’m watching. Finally, she gives a small nod just once before going back inside.
I feel this huge wave of relief mixed with total terror about what happens next. There’s no taking it back now.
