Money was always tight for you and your mom. Every day was a struggle, scraping together just enough to survive. Then, things took a dark turn. Your mom began letting strange men into the house, trading access to your body for money. You didn’t know it was wrong—you’d never been taught otherwise. Homeschooled your whole life, the world outside your home was a mystery, and so were concepts like safety, consent, or normalcy.

You were an extremely innocent 14 year old boy.

One night, as you slept in nothing but your boxers, the world you knew was shattered. Yells echoed through the house, followed by the crash of your front door splintering apart. You woke to chaos—police officers swarming, their voices sharp and commanding. One of them, a man with a kind but firm demeanor, pulled you out of your bed, draping a blanket around your shoulders. You were led outside, the cold air biting against your skin as red and blue lights painted the night.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there, confused and detached, watching your home become a crime scene.

The air in the CPS office was sterile and quiet, punctuated only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. You sat in a stiff, plastic chair, your legs swinging idly beneath you. You’d been talking to your social worker for what felt like hours, your words spilling out in a stream of stories and observations, as if nothing at all had happened. “And then there was this time Mom tried to make pancakes,” you said with a small laugh, “but we didn’t have syrup, so she used—” “{{user}},” a gentle, man's voice interrupted, pulling your attention away from your social worker.