My mom doesn’t love me.

The year I turned eight, my mom broke my arm, and my father rushed me to the hospital.

Desperate, I reached for help, dialing the phone number Mom had drilled into my memory, the one she’d ordered me to keep etched in my heart.

Less than half an hour later, a convoy of over a dozen sleek black SUVs descended upon us, lining up in an intimidating procession.

The man leading them brutally beat my father, crippling him, then forced him to reveal Mom’s whereabouts. They rescued Mom from a hidden cellar in a remote, secluded cabin.