The next morning, I headed to the kitchen to grab coffee—and stopped in my tracks. Taped to the fridge was a long list titled “House Rules – Read Carefully.” Written in large red letters, it caught my eye right away.
I read them one by one. There were strict rules about everything—from needing permission to cook or shower, to keeping my bedroom door open at all times. No visitors allowed, not even family. Cell phone use was limited. And the most unusual: Mrs. Wilkins kept the bathroom locked and only gave access with a key.
The last line gave me chills: Rule 12 – RESERVED FOR LATER.
Before I could fully process it, I heard Mrs. Wilkins behind me. “Did you read the rules?” she asked in a gentle tone that somehow felt more like a test.
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep calm.
“They’re important,” she said. “They keep everything… peaceful.”
I nodded, but my instincts told me something was off. I returned to my room and started quietly packing. I didn’t want confrontation, just a way out. But as I zipped my bag, a crackling intercom I hadn’t noticed before buzzed to life.
“Are you leaving already, dear?” her voice echoed through it.
I froze. “I forgot something important I have to take care of,” I replied quickly.
She met me by the front door, smiling politely. “If you must go, then go,” she said. “But remember—communication is key in this house.”
Outside, the cool morning air never felt so freeing.
A few blocks away, I sat on a park bench trying to gather my thoughts. I had no plan, just a suitcase and a sense of relief.
“Are you okay?” someone asked. I looked up to see a guy about my age holding a coffee and paper bag.
“Not really,” I admitted.
He introduced himself as Ethan and offered me a croissant. His kindness came as a surprise.
We talked for hours. I told him what happened—how the rules in that house made me feel trapped, how I’d hoped it would be a safe space but it wasn’t.
By the end of the day, Ethan helped me find a room in a shared apartment close to campus, with fair and normal expectations. He even got me a job at the café where he worked. In time, our friendship grew into something more.
Occasionally, we still talk about that strange house and wonder what exactly Mrs. Wilkins meant by her final rule. But more than anything, I’m grateful I trusted my instincts and left when I did.
Sometimes, the best decision is walking away from something that doesn’t feel right—even if it looks perfect on the outside.