“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.”

The officers read the page in a heavy silence that felt worse than any screaming match I had ever endured at home. The male officer looked up at me with a completely different expression, seeing me finally as a person who needed to be heard.

“Is the information written on this paper true?” he asked, ignoring my mother when she tried to interrupt with more excuses. I nodded slowly and confirmed that every word on that page was the absolute truth of my existence.

I had written that I had been the primary caregiver for years because my mother spent her days sleeping or watching television. I had also written that my father knew everything but told me I had to endure the exploitation for the sake of the family.

The most painful part was a quote I had overheard my mother telling a neighbor about how she didn’t need a babysitter as long as I was there. My childhood had been converted into domestic savings, and my life was worth less than the cost of professional childcare.

“You are taking things out of context because a mother needs rest after so many pregnancies,” Lydia argued while sounding increasingly nervous. The officer asked her exactly who took care of the children during the day if she was resting, and she had no answer.

My aunt Helena spoke up and reminded them that a sixteen year old girl had been carrying the entire load for far too long. My mother turned on her and shouted that a childless woman knew nothing about the sacrifices required to maintain a household.

“I might not have children, but I know when a young girl looks so exhausted that she is physically ill,” Helena retorted. The officer put the paper in his pocket and stepped out onto the porch to make several official phone calls.

The female officer stayed inside and asked me if I truly felt safe or if I wanted to return to that house tonight. I told her no from the most tired part of my soul, explaining that I was constantly threatened and blamed for everything that went wrong.

I told her about failing my classes because I was late or falling asleep while trying to study with a crying infant in my lap. “She is just being an ungrateful child who thinks basic chores are a form of abuse,” my mother spat with pure venom.