My Dad Makes Us “Vote” On Who Gets To Sleep In A Bed Or A Dirt Pit. My Brother Just Betrayed Us To Save Himself. How Do I Escape?

It’s not much, but it’s evidence that this has been going on for years. It shows how Dad manipulates everything while pretending the system is fair.

I pull my hand out and arrange the insulation to look undisturbed, then step back to check if anything looks different. The wall looks normal, and I let myself breathe a little easier knowing Dad can’t find this one piece of proof.

I go back to my yoga mat and lie down, listening to the house settle into its usual nighttime sounds. That’s when I hear it through the thin walls.

Mom’s voice comes from Yasmin’s room, barely more than a whisper, but I can make out the words. She’s talking about maybe taking Yasmin to the clinic tomorrow without telling Dad.

Her voice shakes but sounds determined in a way I haven’t heard in months. For just a second, I let myself hope that Mom might actually do something.

Maybe she will finally stand up and protect Yasmin instead of just accepting whatever Dad decides. Then Yasmin coughs in response, that wet painful cough that’s been getting worse for weeks.

She’s too weak to even answer Mom’s question. I hear Mom’s brief spark of courage die in the silence, replaced by quiet crying that she tries to muffle with her pillow.

I close my eyes and force myself not to cry too, because crying doesn’t change anything. I need to stay focused on what I can actually do.

The next morning I’m eating cereal at the kitchen table when Dad announces he’ll drive Mom and Yasmin to the clinic himself. His voice is cheerful and concerned, playing the caring father role perfectly.

Mom’s face goes blank as she realizes he heard her whispering last night. She knows he’s taking over her plan before she can act on it.

Dad explains that he’s been worried about Yasmin too and wants to make sure she gets proper care. He is completely stealing Mom’s idea and making it his own.

At the clinic Dad stays with them the entire time, sitting right next to Yasmin during the examination. He answers all the doctor’s questions before Mom can speak, describing Yasmin’s symptoms in careful detail that makes him sound attentive and responsible.

The doctor prescribes basic cold medicine and tells them to come back if the cough doesn’t improve in a week. Dad thanks the doctor warmly and herds Mom and Yasmin straight back to the car.

He is not giving Mom a single moment alone to say anything different. When they get home, Mom’s face is completely blank again.

It’s that empty defeated look that means she’s given up. She realizes escape isn’t possible, that Dad controls even her small attempts at independence and that there’s no way out of his system.

At dinner that night I take a huge risk and slip my phone into my hoodie pocket before coming to the table. Dad’s earlier search missed it because I’d hidden it in the bathroom ceiling tiles, and now it’s my only remaining link to the outside world.

I position the phone carefully in my pocket with the microphone facing out, then press record as Dad starts reading through his clipboard. The audio captures everything in muffled but clear quality.

It hears Dad’s voice announcing it’s time for rankings and the scrape of chairs as we all shift nervously. It hears his explanations of how the system works and why it’s fair.

Mom’s quiet voice is there, ranking herself last like always. Yousef’s manipulation tactics are recorded as he reminds everyone about favors they owe him.

The phone picks up all of it, proof that this is real, that we’re not making it up or being dramatic. My hands sweat under the table, but I keep them still, terrified Dad will notice the slight bulge in my pocket or hear the faint electronic hum.

After Dad finishes announcing the rankings, he stands up with barely contained excitement. His eyes actually light up as he declares the pit is now live for tonight’s placement.

He describes it like he’s unveiling some amazing new feature. He explains that storms are coming this week and the tarp will keep rain out while the dirt walls provide natural insulation.

He talks about drainage and temperature regulation, genuinely proud of his engineering. His enthusiasm for our suffering is so obvious it makes my stomach twist.

I have to look down at my plate to keep from showing my disgust. Dad asks if anyone has questions about the new system, and we all stay silent, knowing that speaking up just makes things worse.

Then Yousef suddenly sits up straighter and points at Mom. He accuses her of tampering with the voting by trying to signal to Yasmin during the ranking.

It is completely made up, but it gives him a perfect excuse. Dad’s eyes narrow as he looks at Mom, asking if this is true.

Mom shakes her head, but her denial is weak and unconvincing because she’s too defeated to fight back. Dad seizes on Yousef’s accusation immediately.

He praises him for maintaining system integrity and being vigilant about rule violations. He confirms that Mom will take the pit tonight as punishment for attempting to manipulate the voting process.

I watch my brother sacrifice our mother without any hesitation, selling her out to protect his own ranking. Something inside me breaks permanently.

The part of me that still believed family meant something, that still hoped we could somehow come together against Dad, just dies right there at the dinner table. Yousef won’t meet my eyes as Dad writes Mom’s name next to the pit assignment.

I realize my brother is completely lost to Dad’s system now. After dinner I go to the garage and lie down on my yoga mat, listening to the sound of rain starting to fall outside.

Each drop hits the roof like a tiny hammer, and I know Mom is in that pit right now with only a tarp between her and the storm. The guilt and rage mixed together until I can barely breathe.

My chest is tight with the weight of knowing I could have ranked her higher but didn’t. But the anger also makes my resolve harder and clearer.

Tomorrow I’m calling 911 no matter what happens to me afterward. No matter how Dad punishes me or what threats he makes, someone has to break the silence.

I will do it even if it means Dad punishes me until I break too, because staying quiet isn’t protecting anyone anymore. I lie there for hours listening to the rain get heavier, imagining Mom in that dirt hole getting colder and wetter.

I promise myself that this ends tomorrow.

The Confession

At the school the next morning, Mrs. McCann pulls me aside before class starts. She asks directly about the uncomfortable sleeping places I mentioned in my essay last week, her voice gentle but firm.

I’m so exhausted and scared that the words just come out before I can stop them. I tell her about the shed, about how it’s metal and cold and full of spiders.

I tell her about how we take turns sleeping there based on rankings. Mrs. McCann goes very still as I talk, her face getting paler with each detail.

She asks careful questions about how often this happens and who decides the sleeping arrangements. I can see her mentally filing a mandated report even as we speak.

Her hand shakes slightly as she writes notes, and when I finish talking, she tells me she’s going to make sure I get help. By lunch, Mrs. McCann has updated her CPS report with explicit concerns about inadequate shelter and potential hypothermia risk.

She includes my direct statement about the metal shed and detailed notes about Yasmin’s declining health that she’s observed during school pickup. She adds her observations of our family’s fear-based dynamics.

The report gets flagged as high priority because it involves young children and dangerous living conditions. CPS assigns it to Ammani for immediate follow-up.

That afternoon Ammani returns to our house with two police officers, their expressions serious and concerned. Dad’s performance is absolutely flawless as he invites them inside with a warm smile.

He shows them the shed, which he’s filled with camping equipment and clean blankets. He is making it look like a fun outdoor adventure spot rather than a punishment cell.

Dad explains calmly that I’ve been telling stories because I’m angry about normal discipline. He says that I have a vivid imagination and sometimes exaggerate to get attention.

He suggests I might need counseling for my tendency to dramatize regular family situations. The officers look uncertain as they compare Dad’s reasonable explanations to what they were told to investigate.

One officer asks me directly if anyone forces me to sleep outside. Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and threatening.