“You can’t trust me because I can’t trust you!” I scream at my mom.

Tears roll down her face, and her eyes are red as if she’d been crying for a while.

My mom is standing with my diary lying wide open on my bed.

I run over and grab the diary, slamming it shut. All she does is stare at me, confused and lost. With a shaky voice, she asks me, “Why do you want to run away? Have I not given you everything?”

I answer quietly while trying to steady my voice. “You make me stay home and watch Oliver while you go out to clubs. I cook every meal. I clean the house. You expect me to succeed in school, to take myself and Oliver to school, to go to soccer practices and games all alone, and still you’re disappointed with me?”

She’s frozen. The silence is so loud, louder than yelling.

I ask her, “Why would you read my diary?”

“I noticed bags packed in the car, and I just can’t trust you!” she exclaims.

I scream back “You can’t trust me because I can’t trust you!” I go to grab the last bag that I have packed with clothes, a toothbrush, and food.

Before I grab the bag, she snatches my wrist, gripping tight enough to leave a red mark. She starts dragging me out of my room while I scream and fight to get away. We land near the basement door. She opens the door and throws me down the stairs.

I catch my footing and look up the flight of stairs. The door slams, and I hear the bolts click, locking into place.

In a slow voice, I say, “Mommy, please, I love you! I won’t leave!”

After a few minutes, she screams, “No one leaves me! You are gonna stay down there until you realize your sins!”

Now I hear just the racing of my heartbeat and her cries on the other side of the door. The air is heavy and damp. I breathe in and smell dust and something sour. A light bulb starts to flicker above me. The concrete is cold under my bare feet, and every sound is echoing around me.

Thoughts of Oliver start flooding my head. I think of this morning when he gave me a huge hug as I dropped him off at school. He whispered that I’m his favorite person. I wonder if my mom will even realize when he needs to be picked up from soccer.

I turn around, trying to find a way out in the dim light. I walk around with my hands straight out in front of me, and I find a doorknob. As I turn the handle, a foul odor hits me in the nose, making me flinch. I open the door fully, and I see my father, the man who went missing fifteen years ago, lying on the floor, dead.