My Boyfriend Let His Parents Kidnap Me for My Own Pregnancy

The bottom shelf had prenatal vitamins in a little organizer with the days of the week marked. Next to that were water bottles lined up perfectly and juice boxes with straws already in them.

Everything was arranged like a kid’s lunchbox. My stomach turned, and I shoved the container back inside and closed the door.

The bathroom was just as bad when I checked it. There was no mirror anywhere, which meant I couldn’t break glass to use as a weapon or tool.

The medicine cabinet was empty except for toilet paper and soap. There was no razor, no tweezers, nothing metal or sharp.

Even the toilet paper holder was built into the wall so I couldn’t remove it. I turned on the shower and only warm water came out, no matter which way I turned the handle.

The pressure was weak like someone had put a restrictor on it. They’d thought of everything.

The toilet was the only hard surface, but it was bolted down solid. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands.

Every possible escape route was blocked. Hours passed before I heard footsteps on the stairs.

The lock clicked and my boyfriend came in carrying a tray. He wouldn’t look at me at all.

He set the tray down on the small table and turned to leave right away. I stood up and tried to keep my voice calm even though I wanted to scream.

I asked him how he could possibly think this was okay. He finally looked up, but his eyes slid away from mine almost immediately.

He said his parents were doing this because they loved the baby and wanted to make sure nothing went wrong. His voice was flat like he’d practiced the words.

I told him this was kidnapping and abuse and completely insane. He just shook his head.

” “You don’t understand how dangerous pregnancy can be.” ” He said.

Then he left and locked the door behind him. I looked at the tray of food and something inside me snapped.

I grabbed the plate and threw it as hard as I could against the wall. Food splattered everywhere and the plate broke into pieces.

I was screaming that I wanted out right now. I picked up the cup and threw that too.

Then I pounded on the door again, yelling for someone to let me out. My boyfriend’s voice came through the door.

” “Starving yourself would only hurt the baby.” ” He said.

He told me if I didn’t eat they would have the doctor put in a feeding tube and force-feed me. His voice was still calm and matter of fact.

I heard his footsteps going back up the stairs. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, surrounded by broken dishes and food.

My whole body was shaking. That night I couldn’t sleep at all.

I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and listening to every sound from upstairs. Footsteps walked across the floor above me every 20 or 30 minutes.

At first I thought it was just someone getting up to use the bathroom, but the pattern was too regular. The steps would walk from one end of the house to the other, pause, then walk back.

After a few hours, I realized what was happening. They were taking turns watching the camera feed.

Someone was always awake making sure I didn’t try anything. The footsteps came like clockwork all through the night.

I counted them to stay sane. By the time light started coming through the small window, I’d counted over 40 trips across the ceiling.

Morning came and I heard someone coming down the stairs. His mother unlocked the door and came in with another tray.

She had the same big smile on her face like nothing was wrong. She looked at the food dried on the wall and the broken dishes on the floor.

She made a comment about how I’d redecorated the place. Her voice was cheerful like she was joking with a friend.

She set the new tray down and said she’d bring me cleaning supplies after I ate breakfast. She acted like I was a guest at her house instead of a prisoner in her basement.

I just stared at her. She patted my shoulder and told me to eat up because the baby needed nutrition.

Then she left and locked the door again. I decided to try a different way.

When she came back with the cleaning supplies, I spoke calmly and asked her to explain what she thought this would accomplish. I told her this was kidnapping and she would go to prison for it.

She set down the bucket and mop and came over to me. She took my hand and patted it like I was a confused child.

” “Concerns like mine always go away once the baby is born healthy. You will understand eventually just like the others did.” ” She said.

Her voice was so sincere and kind that it made everything worse. She actually believed she was helping me.

I pulled my hand away and she just smiled and told me to clean up when I was ready. She went back upstairs humming to herself.

A Legacy of Hidden Tally Marks

That afternoon, I heard multiple people coming down the stairs. His mother unlocked the door and came in first.

Behind her was a man carrying medical equipment. She introduced him as Dr. Wallace and said he was here for my first proper prenatal appointment.

I recognized him from pictures I’d seen of their church. He started setting up a portable ultrasound machine on the table while his mother talked about how important it was to monitor the baby’s development.

I backed into the corner as far from them as I could get. I told them I wasn’t letting anyone touch me.

Dr. Wallace didn’t even look up from his equipment. He just kept arranging his tools like I hadn’t spoken.

His mother’s smile finally dropped a little and she called up the stairs for his father. I heard heavy footsteps coming down and knew this was about to get much worse.

His father came through the door and walked straight to me without saying anything. I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go in the small room.

He grabbed my arms and pushed me down onto the bed, holding my shoulders against the mattress with his full weight. I kicked and twisted, but he was too strong.

Dr. Wallace moved in with his equipment like this was a normal appointment. His mother stood by the door watching with her arms crossed.

I screamed for them to stop and his father pressed down harder, making it difficult to breathe. The doctor pulled up my shirt and squeezed cold gel onto my stomach without warning.

I was crying and begging them to please just let me go, but nobody responded. Dr. Wallace moved the ultrasound wand across my skin and stared at the small screen he’d set up on the table.

He made notes on his clipboard between checking the monitor. His mother asked if everything looked good and he nodded without looking up.

The whole examination took maybe 10 minutes, but it felt like hours with his father’s hands digging into my shoulders. When the doctor finally stepped back, his father let go and I curled onto my side sobbing.

Dr. Wallace wiped off his equipment and packed it away in his bag. His mother came over and tried to pat my head, but I jerked away from her.

The doctor told them the baby appeared healthy based on the measurements and heartbeat. Then he said my stress levels were concerning for fetal development and could cause problems if they continued.

His mother nodded like this confirmed everything she’d been saying. She told the doctor that’s exactly why they needed to keep me calm and controlled here where they could monitor everything properly.

Dr. Wallace agreed and said he’d check on me again next week. They all left and locked the door, and I stayed curled on the bed shaking.

The next two days I barely moved except to use the bathroom and pick at the food they brought. But I was watching everything.

I studied every inch of that room looking for any weakness I could use. The padding on the walls was thick industrial material bolted straight through to concrete behind it.

I tried pulling at the edges, but the bolts were sunk deep and I couldn’t get any leverage. The bed frame was metal and welded together then bolted to the floor so I couldn’t even slide it.

The mini fridge was too heavy to lift and had no removable parts. The bathroom fixtures were all one piece installed into the walls.

Even the toilet paper holder was recessed into the wall with no sharp edges. The small window had bars that were set into the concrete foundation and the glass was reinforced with wire mesh inside it.

The door was solid wood with metal reinforcement and the lock was industrial-grade on the outside. I counted the bolts holding the wall padding.

I measured the room by walking heel to toe. I timed how long the light from the window lasted each day.

I was looking for anything that could help me, but everything was built to keep someone trapped. On the third day, I noticed something about the camera mounted in the ceiling corner.

It was positioned to see most of the room, but there was a small blind spot right where the bathroom door met the wall. If I stood pressed against that specific section of wall, the angle meant they couldn’t see exactly what my hands were doing.

It was maybe two feet of space, but it was something. I tested it by standing there and moving my hands while watching the camera lens from that position.

The door frame blocked the view of my hands even though they could still see my body. I filed that information away and kept looking.

His mother brought cleaning supplies that afternoon and told me the bathroom needed attention. I took the bucket and spray bottle and went in there, closing the door most of the way.

I started scrubbing the toilet and that’s when I saw marks on the wall behind it. At first I thought it was just dirt or damage, but when I looked closer I realized they were scratches.

They were deliberate marks carved into the paint and drywall underneath. They were organized in groups of five with a line through each group.

Tally marks. Someone had counted days here before me.

My hands started shaking as I kept counting. 10 days, 20 days, 50 days.

The marks went up the wall and continued onto the section behind the pipes. I had to twist around to see them all.

100 days, 150 days, 200 days. Then they stopped.

I sat back on the floor staring at those marks and felt sick. Someone had been trapped in this room for over 200 days.

His mother had said they did this with his brother’s wife five years ago. This must have been her counting the days of her imprisonment.

I kept cleaning but my mind was racing. I moved the bed slightly to sweep under it and that’s when I saw more marks on the floor.

These weren’t tally marks, though. These were words carved deep into the wood beneath where the bed normally sat.

The scratches were rough and uneven like someone had used something small and not very sharp over many attempts. I had to get down on my hands and knees to read them in the dim light.

” “Marilyn if you fight they hurt the baby.” ” The letters were shaky and desperate looking. Each one had been carved multiple times to make it deep enough to read.

I ran my fingers over the grooves and felt how much effort had gone into scratching this warning into the floor. Marilyn, his brother’s wife.

The woman his mother said eventually understood and had a healthy baby. She’d been here in this exact room carving warnings to whoever came next.

The Doctor’s Weekly Visit and the Failed Escape

That night, I heard someone coming down the stairs and it wasn’t his parents’ footsteps. The lock turned and a younger guy came in carrying a dinner tray.

He looked like a thinner version of my boyfriend with the same nose and chin. This had to be Gary, the brother.

He set the tray on the table and turned to leave, but I spoke up before he could. I asked him directly about Marilyn and what happened to her here.

He froze for just a second, and I saw something flash across his face. Then he recovered and turned back with a blank expression.

He said she was fine now and their daughter was perfectly healthy. He said I should trust the process like she learned to do.

I asked him how long they kept her locked down here. ” “That wasn’t important. What mattered was the baby being safe and Marilyn understood that eventually.” ” He said.

He left quickly after that and locked the door. But I’d seen his reaction when I said her name.

He knew exactly what had happened in this room. I decided to change my approach.

Fighting them wasn’t working and I needed time to figure out a real plan. The next morning when his mother brought breakfast, I ate everything on the plate without arguing.

I took the vitamins she handed me and drank the whole glass of water. She looked surprised but pleased.