The phone felt too heavy for nine-year-old Abigail Foster as she stood barefoot on the cold wooden floor of the small apartment in Cleveland, Ohio. Her little brother, Aiden, lay curled on the mattress behind her, breathing shallowly. She swallowed hard, wiped her face, and dialed the only number she knew might save them.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Abigail,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I’m nine. I haven’t eaten in four days, and my little brother is too weak to stand up.” Her eyes flicked toward the closed bedroom door as if the man on the other side could somehow hear her confession. “My mom’s at work… and her boyfriend, Richard… he doesn’t feed us when she’s gone.”
The dispatcher’s tone sharpened. “Sweetheart, stay on the line. Help is coming.”
Abigail lowered herself to the floor, keeping her body between the phone and the door, praying Richard wouldn’t return before help arrived. Minutes felt like hours. She squeezed Aiden’s hand and whispered, “Hold on. Please.”
When the pounding on the apartment door finally came, it wasn’t Richard’s—it was the police.
“Cleveland Police! Open up!”
There was no answer from inside. The officers exchanged a look—and then forced the door open.
A female officer, Detective Emily Porter, rushed to Abigail. “Honey, are you hurt?” she asked, kneeling. Everything about her was gentle but urgent.
Abigail shook her head. “Please help my brother.”
Paramedics entered quickly. One lifted Aiden carefully, frowning at how light he felt. “He needs fluids immediately,” he muttered.
Detective Porter turned back to Abigail. “When was the last time you ate?”
Abigail thought for a moment, trying to be exact the way she always tried to be. “Richard gave us each half a sandwich on Monday,” she said softly. Today was Friday.
Before the officers could usher her out, Abigail rushed to a loose floorboard beside the wall. She pried it open with trembling fingers and pulled out a battered notebook.
“I wrote everything down,” she whispered, her chin lifting with fragile pride. “My teacher said journals are important records… so I made one.”
Detective Porter took the notebook gently—but when she flipped open the first pages, her professional composure cracked for the briefest moment. The entries were not drawings. Not stories. Not games.
They were something far more disturbing.
And on page three, there was a title that made her blood run cold:
“RICHARD’S RULES.”
Detective Porter sat in the back of the ambulance with Abigail, flipping through the battered notebook as the vehicle sped toward Cleveland Children’s Hospital. What she read felt like a blow to the chest.
Abigail hadn’t kept a diary—she had kept a ledger of survival.
Each page held neat, careful handwriting:
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dates
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times
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exact food portions
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who provided them
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punishments for “asking too much”
The page titled Richard’s Rules listed chilling instructions:
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No food unless Richard says so
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No leaving the room when he is home
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Asking for food means losing breakfast tomorrow
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Crying makes him angry; angry means warnings, and warnings mean hits on the wall
The next entries documented eight tiny meals—eight partial meals in two months—all when their mother was away. On one page, Abigail had written: “Tuesday: Richard ate pizza. He watched me cry. He said I’m too fat to eat and waste Mommy’s money. Aiden tried to talk. Richard punched the wall and said he’d punch us next time.”
“These kids weren’t just neglected,” Porter whispered. “They were starved with intention.”
At the hospital, Aiden was taken directly to emergency care for severe dehydration and malnutrition. Abigail, though weak, insisted on sitting upright, watching everything with wide, frightened eyes. When Porter held her hand, she finally allowed herself to cry.
Within an hour, Child Protective Services and the Child Protection Unit were alerted. Porter filed for an immediate warrant for Richard Hale on charges of felony child abuse, child endangerment, and intentional starvation.
Officers found him at a bar, laughing loudly, a beer in hand. The moment he saw the police, his smile faded—but it was too late.
Back at the precinct, Porter contacted the children’s mother, Sandra Foster, who arrived furious, claiming Abigail was “dramatic” and “made things up for attention.”
Porter said nothing at first.
Instead, she placed Abigail’s notebook on the metal table and opened to a page titled “Mommy’s Promise.”
Sandra’s face drained of color as she read entries describing how she herself had failed the children—disappearing for two days at a time, leaving little food, believing Richard without question.
But the final blow came when Porter slid financial records across the table.
“Sandra… the journal helped us trace your grocery account. You deposited $400 weekly. Richard withdrew $350 in cash every week. You never asked where the food was. You never checked. You believed his lies because it was easier.”
Sandra’s hands shook.
“So tell me,” Porter said quietly, “Did you really not know… or did you just not want to know?”
The investigation moved fast. Abigail’s journal—her small, battered notebook—became the centerpiece of the entire case.
Richard’s arrest came with overwhelming evidence. The judge, stunned by the precision of Abigail’s records, stated openly that no nine-year-old should ever know how to document their starvation this clearly. Richard was sentenced to 32 years in prison.
Sandra faced her own reckoning. Prosecutors charged her with criminal negligence, reckless endangerment, and failure to protect. Her lawyer argued she was manipulated, overwhelmed, frightened of Richard. But the journal told a different story—one of denial, indifference, and willful ignorance. She lost custody permanently and received seven years in state prison.
But the children? They were finally safe.
Aiden spent weeks recovering at the hospital, gaining weight slowly with medical supervision. Abigail stayed by his side, drawing pictures for him, holding his hand whenever he woke from nightmares.
Detective Porter visited often. The first time she saw Abigail smile—a real smile—it was when the girl proudly showed her a new notebook, this one bright blue.
“Is this another journal?” Porter asked gently.
Abigail nodded. “Yeah. But this one’s different. This one’s not about surviving.” She hesitated, eyes softening. “This one’s about everything getting better.”
Eventually, the siblings were placed with a foster family trained to care for children recovering from trauma. Aiden began talking again. Abigail began sleeping through the night. And Porter—despite the dozens of cases she handled—never forgot them.
Months later, Abigail handed Porter a drawing of the day they met.
A broken door.
A frightened girl.
A detective kneeling to meet her eyes.
Under it, Abigail had written:
“Thank you for hearing me.”
Porter framed it on her desk.
Abigail’s journal had begun as a desperate attempt to stay alive.
But it ended as the key that brought justice, truth, and a chance at a new life.
And if there’s one thing this story teaches, it’s this:
Always listen to a child’s voice—because it might be the only lifeline they have.