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?

She says, “We don’t need privacy for air circulation to work properly.”

I realize they’re making sure we can’t have any private conversations or hide anything without them seeing. The level of control is suffocating, and my siblings look as freaked out as I feel.

Without doors on our bedrooms, we’re completely exposed, and mom and dad start taking turns sitting in the hallway where they can watch all of us at once. I go to my room and sit on my bed, feeling their eyes on me constantly.

My sister tries to read a book but keeps glancing at the doorway where mom is positioned in a chair. My younger brother just lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, and I can tell he’s trying not to cry.

The surveillance is constant now, and I know it’s because they suspect something is wrong. I wait until mom gets up to use the bathroom herself before I risk retrieving the phone from the floorboard.

I only have maybe two minutes before she’ll be back. I grab the phone and head to the bathroom, closing the door behind me even though there’s no shower curtain and the space feels exposed.

I pull up the photos of the birth certificates and the photograph with our real names written on the back. I open the tipline website I submitted to before.

My hands are shaking as I attach the timestamped photos and type out a message saying we’re at immediate risk and giving our exact address. I explain that our parents know something is wrong and they’re talking about moving us again, and that we need help right now before it’s too late.

I hit send and watch the little progress bar move across the screen. When it finally says the message went through, I feel this huge wave of relief mixed with terror.

I delete all the evidence from the phone’s browser history and photo gallery, then shove it back in my pocket. I flush the toilet and wash my hands, trying to look normal.

When I open the door, mom is back in her chair in the hallway and she watches me walk from the bathroom to my bedroom. I can feel her stare on my back the whole way.

I hide the phone in the floorboard again and lie down on my bed, trying to slow my breathing and act like everything is fine. The rest of the afternoon drags by with mom and dad switching off hallway duty every few hours.

We eat dinner at the kitchen table in complete silence except for the sound of forks on plates. Nobody makes eye contact, and the air feels heavy with everything we’re not saying.

Late that night, after mom and dad have finally gone to bed, I hear soft footsteps in the hallway. My sister appears in my doorway and gestures for me to come, and I slip out of bed as quietly as possible.

We meet my younger brother and other sibling in the hallway and tiptoe to the bathroom where we can whisper without being heard through bedroom walls. I keep my ear against the door listening for any sound of mom or dad waking up.

My sister starts the conversation by saying we need to go over exactly what we’re going to say one more time, and we all agree in hushed voices. We practice describing the filing cabinet in the shed and what we found inside, making sure we all tell the same story about the folders organized by year and the newspaper clippings about missing children.

My younger brother rehearses explaining about the birth certificates with different names and the photograph with our real names written on the back. I remind everyone to mention that we’ve tested outside air multiple times with no reaction, proving the immune disorder story is fake.

My other sibling practices talking about the fake medical condition name that doesn’t exist anywhere online and how we have no actual medical equipment in the house. We take turns going through the key points until we all have them memorized.

My sister reminds us again to specifically mention the shed and the filing cabinet so the police will know where to look for evidence. We rehearse staying calm and speaking clearly, knowing that if we get too emotional people might not believe us.

My younger brother asks what happens if they separate us and we can’t talk to each other. I say that’s exactly why we need to have the story straight now before anything happens.

We practice for maybe 20 minutes until we all feel confident about what we’re going to say. My sister makes us promise not to defend mom and dad or make excuses for them because the truth is they kidnapped us and lied to us our whole lives.

We all agree, and I can see my younger brother is crying a little, but he wipes his eyes and nods. Before we leave the bathroom, I remind everyone that tomorrow might be the day everything changes and we need to be ready.

We go back to our rooms one at a time, and I lie in bed staring at my doorless doorway unable to sleep. The next morning I’m awake before dawn and positioned by my window watching the street.

The sun comes up slowly, and I see neighbors leaving for work, kids waiting for the school bus—normal morning things that feel impossible from inside our house. Around 8:30 I see movement at the end of our street and my whole body goes tense.

Two police cars turn onto our block followed by an unmarked dark sedan, and they’re driving slowly like they’re looking for addresses. Heidi comes out of her house and stands on her porch, and when the cars get closer she points directly at our front door.

The vehicles pull up and park in front of our house, and I watch as four people get out including two uniformed officers, a woman in business clothes, and Heidi. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat and my hands start shaking.

I hear the doorbell ring downstairs and I move to the top of the stairs where I can hear what’s happening. Dad’s footsteps cross the living room and I hear the front door open.

I position myself where I can see part of the entryway if I lean over the railing and I watch everything unfold below me. The adrenaline makes everything feel sharp and clear and terrifying all at once.

I can hear my siblings moving in their rooms behind me and I know they heard the doorbell too. This is it—the moment we’ve been preparing for and there’s no going back now.

I hear dad start talking in this fake friendly voice, explaining that we have a serious medical condition and visitors are dangerous to our health. His words come out fast and nervous and he’s using phrases like immune compromised and contamination risk.

A woman’s voice cuts through his explanation, firm and professional. She says, “They’re here for a welfare check and they need to see all four children immediately.”

Dad’s voice gets louder and more desperate. He says something about not understanding the severity of our condition and how exposure could kill us.

The woman says again that they need to see us and that he needs to cooperate. I hear one of the police officers say something about obstruction.

Dad tries to physically block the doorway, and his voice takes on this edge that I recognize from when he gets really angry. The woman identifies herself as a social worker.

She says, “If he doesn’t let them in they’ll get a warrant and come back with more officers.”

I can hear mom coming from the kitchen asking what’s going on, and her voice sounds high and panicked. My sister appears next to me at the top of the stairs and grabs my hand, and my younger brother and other sibling are right behind her.

We look at each other and I know this is the moment we have to act. If we don’t do something right now dad might convince them to leave and we’ll lose our chance.

I make a split-second decision and run down the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the wood. My siblings follow right behind me and I push past dad to get to the door where the officers and the woman are standing.

Dad tries to grab my arm, but I pull away and one of the police officers steps between us immediately. I look at the woman and the officers and the words come tumbling out fast and desperate.

I tell them we need help and that everything our parents said about being sick is a lie. I tell them we’re not actually ill and they’ve been keeping us locked inside our whole lives.

Dad is yelling now and trying to reach me, but the other officer moves to block him. Mom is crying and says, “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

My sister steps forward and says it’s true that we found evidence in the shed proving we were kidnapped. My younger brother is crying but he nods and says, “We’re the missing children from 12 years ago.”

The woman, who I’ll later learn is named Maggie Bishop, holds up her hand for everyone to stop talking. She looks directly at me with this serious but kind expression.

She says, “She needs to speak with each of us separately and that our parents need to cooperate right now.”

The police officers make it very clear that dad and mom have to step back and let this happen. I can see the moment when dad realizes he’s lost control of the situation.