Free Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave by Shyima Hall Page B

was far more afraid of him than I was of her. Every day The Mom told him how unhappy she was with me, what a bad attitude I had. I tried to avoid him, but it wasn’t always possible. When she yelled, I could stand there and take it. When he yelled, I flinched and cowered. I couldn’t help it. My fear of him was that great. Once he slapped me so hard that my face tingled for days.
    •    •    •
    As the months wore on, I lost track of time. I had no idea how long I had been there, or even how old I was. I couldn’t even remember what day I was born. Certainly none of my birthdays were celebrated, although one day a daughter was a bit less hateful to me and told me it was because it was my birthday.
    The oldest daughter eventually graduated from high school and began going to college, although she still lived at home. The middle daughter was well into her high school years, and the younger girl, the girl who was my age, was in middle school. The twins were finishing up elementary school.
    In all those years I never saw a doctor or a dentist. I never went to a grocery store, a restaurant, or to the library. In fact, I always thought that every single thing that was purchased came from the same place. I thought there was a big store that had everything, like Walmart, but I never considered that there were other stores too.
    I had no idea how long I had been held in bondage, but I had lost any hope that anything in my life would change. I was resigned to the fact that I would grow old with this family and in my lowly position in the home.
    There were many moments when I hated God, even though I prayed every day. Who else was there for me to talk to? There were many times when I was angry, when I missed my family badly enough that I couldn’t sleep. Some days I wanted to kick and scream at my captors. I wanted to slap them across the face, like they slapped me. But I never did. I was too afraid.
    In the back of my mind I knew that holding another person captive, as I was being held, was wrong. I knew that every family did not have someone like me who slept in the garage. Even though I couldn’t see how, or when, I hoped that someday I would be free of this family and my life could get better. I hoped with all I had that I would be able to see my younger brothers and sisters again. I recalled bits and pieces of them, and the place where we’d lived. Some nights I’d even dream of getting into a taxi that would carry me across the United States and the ocean, and back to our crowded two-room apartment in Egypt.
    That never happened, never could happen. But something else did. Someone—a neighbor maybe, or a mom who had seen me at the park, or possibly someone who had seen me with the boys at the pool—someone, a wonderful someone, made a phone call.
    This unknown person might have spotted me at midnight when I was hanging the clothes out to dry, or through the kitchen window at two in the morning when I was still washing dishes. However he or she learned about me, they questioned how I was being treated and did the right thing. They made a call. That call ended up in the hands of both the local office of Child Protective Services and the local police department. The local office of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement was also called. These are the people who deal with the realities of human trafficking, who rescue people like me. And they did.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The morning of April 9, 2002, dawned like any other. It was a Tuesday, a school day, and The Mom and The Dad, along with the oldest daughter, were upstairs. As I always did, I had risen early to get the twins and the two younger daughters off to school.
    I was downstairs when there was a knock on the door. It was a loud knock, the kind that you hear on television during a police show. I was not allowed to answer either the phone or the door, so I ignored the sound. But then the knock came again and it was loud enough to bring The Dad down the stairs. I had