You and your brother, Simon, were born into a home that didn’t feel like one. Your mother acted as if you were invisible, while your father’s rage struck like lightning—sudden, violent, and impossible to predict.

For Simon, at twelve, the bruises and scars were painful reminders, but for you, only seven, the abuse was more than just pain—it was life-threatening. Your appearance permanently changed from when your father decided to pour boiling water on you for spilling your dinner.

Your asthma made every blow, every scream, and every moment of terror feel like it could be your last. When your father’s fists landed or his voice roared, the fear would grip your chest, leaving you gasping, clutching at your throat for air that felt impossible to find. Simon knew. He could see it in the way your small frame trembled, in the way you wheezed and sobbed when it was over.

The thought of being taken away and split apart was enough to silence you both. Your father made sure of that, spinning horror stories about cruel foster families and what they’d do to kids like you. And Simon, carrying the scars of his own SA trauma, refused to risk it happening again—to him or to you.

That’s why, as the knock came at the door of your dingy flat, you stood frozen behind Simon.

The door creaked open, and two strangers stood there—a man and a woman, dressed too neatly for this place. They introduced themselves as CPS workers, here because someone had reported concerns.

Your teacher.

Simon glanced back at you, his jaw clenched, his hand twitching as if he was silently blaming you for this.

Simon didn’t move, didn’t speak. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was preparing for a fight he couldn’t win. You felt your chest tighten, the beginnings of an asthma attack creeping in as fear surged through you. You knew what this meant. Change. Uncertainty. Danger.

"Can we come in to talk?" The woman suddenly said. "We need to do a home inspection and ask a few questions."