Page 61 of British Daddy to Go
Maggie
It’s only been a day since my mother locked my door, and I’m already bored out of my mind.
I’ve read three books. Three! That’s ridiculous. I love to read, but not that much. I’m usually more of a one-book-a-month person, not a three-books-per-day person.
A part of me thinks my parents are just trying to make a point with this punishment. They want me to understand that trust and freedom are earned and that I shouldn’t take them for granted. No matter how hard I try to convince them I’ve learned my lesson, they won’t open the door.
There’s this TV show I really like that I catch up on when the seasons air on streaming websites. It’s a police procedural type show where each episode is a different case they’re working on. They take on a psychological approach to solving murders or kidnappings, and a lot of them involve girls who were locked in rooms and unable to leave. The one thing that differentiates me from these fictional stories is that my bathroom is attached to my bedroom. I get real running water and a flushable toilet while a lot of the girls on TV only get a bucket if they’re lucky.
And my parents won’t even let me watch TV! At the very least, they could get me a TV with standard cable channels to keep me entertained. It’s not like I’d be able to contact the outside world with that!
I toss my current book to the side. I tried reading it once before and only made it a quarter of the way through because it’s super boring. This time is no different. The book did not become suddenly exciting due to my exile.
A shuffling outside my bedroom door catches my attention.
“Mom?” I call out.
“It’s lunch time, Magdalena,” she yells through the door. My mother hasn’t used my full name this much since I was born. I don’t hate the name, but it doesn’t feel like me anymore. Every time she uses it, I know it’s because she’s angry with me. I might start hating the name if she keeps this up.
My mom unlocks the door and pulls it back just enough to slide a tray with gooey grilled cheese through. I snatch the food from her hands. If I could see her, I’d probably see a startled look. She might even think I’m about to try to escape. Yesterday, I might have considered it; today, I’m resigned to my fate. Where would I go if I did escape?
Jenna’s apartment is always an option. She’s been begging me to move in with her since we were freshman in high school. Back then, it was because we weren’t allowed to hang out much, and she thought a shared living space would remedy our predicament. With each year that passed after graduation, it was because Jenna thought my living arrangement was unhealthy.
I didn’t agree with her until Mom had turned the key and walked downstairs, calling me a slut and a prostitute the entire way down.
“Mom, can I please come down to the living room and watch some TV?”
“So that you can run off and be with your pimp? Absolutely not!”
I’d cried enough on my first day in purgatory that I don’t think I have any tears left. If I did, I’d be crying right now. “I just want to watch TV, Mom. I won’t leave the house.”
“You have betrayed our trust, Magdalena. That comes with consequences. In four weeks, if your behavior is immaculate, we will reconsider the terms of your punishment. For now, you will remain in your room.”
Mom retreats down the stairs. I hope she’s proud of how terribly she’s treating me. I don’t deserve to be locked up like some animal in a zoo!
My stomach growls. The last thing I want is to accept nourishment from my captors, but I have no choice if I want to survive. I take a bite out of the grilled cheese sandwich and nearly groan. Of course, it’s delicious. Mom wouldn’t dare serve something sub-par, even to her imprisoned daughter. She’ll gladly let me suffer, but she won’t let me starve.
After the grilled cheese disappears down my famished throat, I add the empty plate to the one from breakfast. Mom collects the plates every night after she serves me dessert. Last night, she gave me a bowl of ice cream. I wonder what she’ll allow me tonight.
Dad hasn’t ventured to my room at all since before the scene with my mom. If he disagreed with her punishment, he would have done something about it. My mother is definitely the dominant in the relationship, but my dad doesn’t let her walk over him completely. When he wants something, he gets it.
Which means he doesn’t want me to be free.
That thought breaks my heart. Just two days ago, I was the happiest I have ever been, tumbling around with Sean in the sheets. My parents truly don’t care about what I want, though; they’re too busy worrying about their own reputations. I was supposed to be their perfect, obedient daughter. My life was mapped out before my birth. I’ve deviated from the plan at every turn, starting with my insistence on public school over parochial school and my constant flow of creativity.
The public school thing had nearly been impossible to accomplish. It took me holding my breath until I passed out three days in a row for them to finally concede. Even then, they’d tried to bring me back to the religious school after a week, but I had started from scratch and held my breath once again.
Thankfully, public school had gotten me Jenna.
Oh, poor Jenna. What is she thinking right now? Has she tried to come visit? I hope she doesn’t feel like I’ve abandoned her. She has to know that the only reason I’ve gone this long without texting her is because I’m not allowed to use the phone anymore.
I should have let Jenna get me out of this house a long time ago. What’s that phrase she used? Right, Stockholm Syndrome. She’s convinced I only stay with my parents because they’ve essentially brainwashed me into loving them.
What if that’s true? The last few days have pretty much confirmed that they want to control me, not love me.
I can’t sit on my stupid bed any longer. I walk to my sewing table to get some work done. What I’d like to do is look out a window to see the city I’m missing out on, but the window in my room faces a brick wall!
My sewing table is the one good thing about this punishment. My parents may have taken my phone and my computer, but they didn’t take my sewing machine and fabrics. I pull out my notebook and start sketching a new design.