My husband, Aaron, and his mother, Lorraine, helped me upstairs and settled me into bed. For once, I felt genuinely grateful for their care.
But the second they stepped out, I heard it — the click of the lock.
“HEY! AARON! LORRAINE! WHY DID YOU LOCK THE DOOR?!” I shouted.
No answer.
My stomach dropped. I reached for my phone, only to realize it was still in my bag… left out in the hallway.
Panic surged. I grabbed my crutches, dragged myself to the door, pain jolting through my leg with every move. The handle wouldn’t budge. Solid.
They had locked me in. But why?
I banged my fist against the wood. “HELLO?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!”
Silence.
Then—scrape. The faint sound of paper sliding against the floor.
A folded sheet appeared under the door.
My hands trembled as I snatched it up and unfolded it.
The handwriting was sharp, deliberate.
*“Stay in this room. Do not try to leave. It’s for your own good.”*
My blood ran cold. For my own good?
I slammed my fist against the door again. “AARON! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!”
Nothing.
I pressed my ear to the wood, heart racing. Faint voices carried from the hallway — Aaron’s low murmur, Lorraine’s sharper tone.
“…she’ll slow everything down…”
“…better if she just stays put…”
My breath caught. What did that mean?
Fueled by adrenaline, I scanned the room. Cast or not, I wasn’t staying locked away. I hobbled to the window and shoved it open. Cold night air hit my face. The drop to the lawn wasn’t far, but with my knee, it was risky.
Then I heard it — the jingle of keys.
I scrambled back to bed just as the lock turned. The door creaked open.
Lorraine stepped in first, Aaron behind her, his face tight.
“What’s going on?” I demanded, clutching the crumpled note. “Why did you lock me in? Why this?”
Aaron wouldn’t meet my eyes. Lorraine smirked.
“Because, dear,” she said coldly, “Aaron doesn’t need a wife who drags him down. You’re broken. You can’t work. You can’t even walk. Better for you to rest quietly in here… while we figure out what comes next.”
My stomach dropped. This wasn’t care — this was control.
But Lorraine had underestimated me.
With every ounce of strength, I hurled the crutches at the nightstand. The lamp shattered, sparks flying as the bulb burst. Startled, Aaron jumped back, and in that chaos, I shoved myself past them, limping hard, screaming at the top of my lungs:
“HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”
Doors opened down the hallway — neighbors from adjoining rooms at the rental house we lived in. Faces appeared, confused, alarmed.
And there I stood, hair wild, tears streaking my face, pointing at Lorraine and Aaron. “They locked me in! They’re trying to keep me prisoner!”
The crowd swelled, voices rising. Lorraine stammered, Aaron’s face crumbled with guilt. Someone had already called the police.
By the time flashing lights painted the windows, I knew one thing for certain:
The lock on that door wasn’t meant to protect me. It was meant to erase me.
But they hadn’t counted on my fight.
And that night, they lost me forever.
