Every Morning, My Parents Insisted On ‘Fixing’ My Bike Before I Rode. ‘It’s For Your Own Good, They Said. But The Accidents Kept Happening… Until I Caught My Dad Doing This To My Bike. I …
Every morning, my parents insisted on “fixing” my bike before I rode to work.
They always said it was for my own good, said the company bikes were unreliable, said they were just being careful parents.
At first, I believed them, because believing your parents is easier than imagining something darker.
But the accidents kept happening, always close calls, always just shy of something that would have changed my life forever.
A skid at a crosswalk, a brake that responded a second too late, a wobble that sent my heart into my throat while traffic screamed past me.
Each time, I came home shaken, scraped, smelling of grease and panic, and each time, my parents reacted in a way I couldn’t explain.
That afternoon, I came home trembling so badly I had to lean against the door just to keep myself upright.
A truck had missed me by inches at the roundabout, its horn blaring as I swerved and barely stayed upright.
My hands were scraped, my jeans torn, and there was grease smeared along my arm like evidence I didn’t yet understand.
“I fell again,” I called out.
My mother turned from the sink with a smile that appeared too quickly, like she had practiced it.
My father didn’t even look up from the newspaper, folded neatly like he had all the time in the world.
“You fell?” my mother asked, her eyes scanning me carefully.
“Are you ///? Any bones < ?”
Not concern, not comfort, but inspection, like she was checking inventory.
“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice sounded wrong even to me.
“I almost went under a truck.”
That should have mattered.
It didn’t.
Instead, my father folded his paper slowly and asked if I had reported it, not if I was okay, not if I needed to sit down.
Just whether anyone had written anything down.
My stomach twisted as memories replayed themselves with disturbing clarity.
That morning, my father had crouched beside my bike again, fingers blackened with grease, tugging at the brake cable and muttering about safety.
Click. Tug. Done.
They talked about payouts that night.
About a delivery rider in the next town who had gotten six figures for a broken arm.
They laughed, called it luck, and shared a look that made my chest feel hollow.
I went upstairs shaking, past my bike leaning against the wall, handlebars twisted as if listening.
For the first time, I didn’t see a machine.
I saw a question.
And when I finally understood why my parents had looked disappointed when I came home alive that day, it was already too late to pretend I didn’t know.
Because I was always the responsible one in my family, the one who was expected to give, to wait, to sacrifice quietly.
And now, lying awake in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat, I realized something was terribly wrong.
Tomorrow, I was going to look at that bike myself.
And whatever I found would change everything.
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PART 2
I waited until the house was quiet, until the TV murmured softly downstairs and my parents’ footsteps faded into routine.
Then I stepped into the hallway and crouched beside the bike, my hands shaking as I ran my fingers along the brake cable.
What I saw made my breath hitch.
The cable wasn’t worn.
It wasn’t loose from age or neglect.
It had been adjusted deliberately, tightened just enough to delay response, just enough to fail at speed, just enough to turn a normal ride into a gamble.
Footsteps creaked behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
My father’s shadow stretched across the wall, long and calm, like he’d been expecting this moment all along.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t deny it.
He only said my name softly and told me not to jump to conclusions.
That was when I understood something far worse than broken trust.
They hadn’t been careless.
They hadn’t been ignorant.
They had been waiting.
Waiting for the right accident, the right report, the right amount of damage that would change all our lives.
And suddenly, every conversation, every look, every so-called concern snapped into focus.
Five hours later, the knock came at the door.
Blue lights spilled across the walls, and my mother’s face drained of color as voices filled the hallway.
I stood in my room, shaking, listening as my father explained things calmly, convincingly, the way he always did.
And I realized the most terrifying part wasn’t what he had done.
It was how easily he believed it was justified.
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Every morning, my parents insisted on fixing my bike before I rode. It’s for your own good, they said. But the accidents kept happening. Until I caught my dad doing this to my bike. I didn’t shout. I took action. Five hours later, police were at the door. I came home shaking like I’d just been shoved out of a washing machine.
My hands were scraped, my jeans had a rip in the knee, and there was a streak of grease up my arm that made me look like I’d been wrestling a lawnmower. Honestly, I’d have laughed if my heart wasn’t still somewhere back at that roundabout, trying to dodge the truck that nearly turned me into road paint. I slammed the door shut behind me. I fell again, I called out.
Mom turned from the sink with that fake smile she uses whenever someone knocks on the door. Dad didn’t even look up from the paper. Yes, the actual paper, like we’re still in the 90s. You fell? Mom asked, her smile flickering. “‘But are you hurt? Any bones broken?’ Her eyes scanned me like I was a piece of meat at the butcher.
Not much tenderness in it, more like she was checking a shopping list. “‘I’m fine,’ I said, though my voice sounded more like a dying accordion than a person. Breaks didn’t catch. Nearly went under a truck. You’d think that last part would have got a reaction. A gasp, maybe. Or even just an, oh my god.
Instead, Dad folded his paper with the care of a man doing origami and said, did you report it? Not, are you okay? Not, sit down. Just report. No, I said, rubbing my arms. Why would I? I’m not hurt. These things matter, he said. Did anyone at work write anything down? I just stared at him. No, Dad. No one wrote anything down. I didn’t exactly break my skull open, okay? Just bruises.
Mom brought over a glass of water and set it in front of me like it was a prop. Sometimes you don’t feel it right away, she said softly. Your wrist. Maybe your back. You should think carefully. Really carefully. I flexed my hand. It hurt, but in the same way stubbing your toe hurts, not in a call-the-insurance-company way.
Nope. Still alive. Just lucky. They shared a look then. Not the relieved, thank-God-she’s-okay look you might expect from parents. More like disappointment. Dad cleared his throat. Well, he said, trying to sound casual. Sometimes reporting it helps. Remember that guy in the next town? Delivery rider, fell off his work bike, broke his arm.
The company had to pay him six figures. Just for a his arm. The company had to pay him six figures. Just for a broken arm. Wild, Mom said, laughing like it was a party anecdote. Imagine being that lucky. Lucky? Sure. Nearly going under a truck definitely makes me feel like the luckiest girl alive. I managed a smile that probably looked like gas pain. Crazy, I said.
Inside, my stomach was doing cartwheels. Because this morning, before my shift, Dad had been crouched by my bike again. Brakes felt spongy, he’d said, with his usual grease-under-the-nails pride. He always fiddled with things—chairs, taps, my bike. Half the time they broke after. He called it maintenance. I called it meddling.
But now? The memory of his fingers on the brake cable played back in my head like bad CCTV. Click, tug, done. And now here I was, done. And now here I was, one close call away from being a cautionary tale. Mom leaned closer. Can I see your knees? I lifted my shorts. She made a sympathetic noise that sounded a bit too rehearsed. Oh, poor thing. That looks nasty. It’s fine, I said.
But it could have been worse. There was a truck.Don’t be dramatic,’ Dad said, “‘giving that chuckle people use “‘when they want to make your fear look small. “‘Nothing happened. “‘Nothing happened. “‘Right. “‘My genes had a hole in them, “‘and my heart still hadn’t sat down since the roundabout. “‘But sure. “‘Nothing.
‘ “‘I checked it this morning,’ “‘Dad added quickly. “‘It’s a company bike. They don’t maintain “‘those things. I’m just keeping “‘you safe.’ I bit “‘my tongue. I didn’t feel “‘safe at all. “‘I’m going to shower,’ I said.’ said. Don’t get the bruises wet, Mom called after me. Which, honestly, is not how water works.
When I came back down, the house was quiet except for the TV. I wasn’t hungry, but Mom slid a plate in front of me. Eat, she said. You’ll feel better. What if I don’t? I asked. It slipped out before I could catch it. She blinked at me like I’d just spoken in Latin. Dad’s jaw twitched. His fork clinked against the plate.
Tomorrow, he said. I’ll take a proper look. Maybe change the cable. It’s nothing. You already looked this morning, I said. It needed another one. Maybe the company should take a proper look, I said, and there it was again. That draft between them, a quick shared flicker like a lightbulb wanting to go out. Mom smiled, tight and sharp. We don’t need to make trouble.
You said yourself you’re fine. Fine. My new favorite word. I excused myself and went upstairs. My bike was leaning against the radiator in the hall, handlebars turned like it was eavesdropping. I stopped and looked at it. At the cables, the chain, the bolts. All innocent, right? Until they weren’t. In my room, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling crack that looks like a river. My hands shook. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe it was just bad luck.
But deep down, I knew. Something was wrong. And soon, I was going to see something that would change everything. To understand why my parents looked disappointed that night when I said I’d fallen off my bike, you need to know how things worked in my family. they didn’t work. At least, not for me. I was always the responsible one.
That’s not as glamorous as it sounds. It basically means you’re the person who gets told no a lot while your sibling is busy being described as special and talented and full of potential. My older sister got the violin lessons, the new clothes, the shiny praise. I got the hand-me-downs and a pat on the head. Not even a sarcastic gold star. Just a pat. When she came home with good grades, there was applause.
Literal applause sometimes. When I came home with good grades, it was, well, of course you did. You’re reliable. Imagine trying to feel proud of yourself when your entire identity is responsible furniture. Fast forward a few years. My sister graduates from college. Cue the marching band. My parents smiled so wide you’d think she cured cancer, not just past finals.
And me? I clapped, too. Quietly. Because clapping for her was safer than noticing I was already fading into wallpaper. Then came the pregnancy bombshell. Dinner table, roast chicken, normal evening, until she cleared her throat and said, so, I’m pregnant. You’d expect panic, right? Nope. My mom dropped her fork, then practically started glowing.
My dad leaned back, like this was the best sitcom plot twist he’d ever seen. By dessert, they’d already moved on to talking about the wedding, the house, the future. Meanwhile, I was still stuck on, wait, did she just say she’s having a baby? My parents were treating it like a miracle.
I was sitting there wondering why my voice suddenly didn’t count in conversations anymore. My sister’s boyfriend, let’s call him Mr. Not Rich, wasn’t exactly a catch financially. He was still studying, broke as a paperclip. My parents didn’t care. They just decided, in that moment, that they were going to bankroll a whole new life for her. Wedding, house, happily ever after. Like money grows on the tomato plants mom never remembers to water.
The problem? Money doesn’t grow. And I’d just gotten into college. When my acceptance letter arrived, I thought for a second I’d get a parade of my own. Instead, my parents sat me down with serious faces. That’s never a good sign. Dad cleared his throat like he was about to deliver a lecture. We can’t afford both, he said. Mom added the guilt cherry on top.
College will still be there, honey, but a baby can’t wait. So guess who got to wait? They convinced me to defer. Convinced is a polite word. Basically, it was, if you don’t defer, we’re not helping you at all. And what 17-year-old is ready to pay for college alone? Not me. So I wrote to the university, said I’d start next year, and pretended my chest wasn’t caving in.
I told myself it was temporary. A year off. A gap year. People do that all the time, right? Take a year to experience life. That’s how they sold it to me. Real life experience. Spoiler again. Real life experience apparently meant biking around town delivering packages while handing my wages to my parents. Because that’s what I did.
Full-time delivery job, uniform that smelled like cardboard and sweat, and a company bike with squeaky brakes. My paychecks went straight into the family pot. Rent, savings, house deposit, wedding fund, you name it. My sister didn’t contribute a cent, even though she was still living at home. Why would she? She was the golden child.
Golden children don’t pay bills, they just sparkle and reproduce. I tried not to think about it too much. Tried to laugh about it with friends, saying things like, guess I’m just paying for my sister’s honeymoon. Dry jokes are cheaper than therapy, but deep down, every paycheck felt like a brick on my chest.
And then came the dinner conversation that should have just been funny, but wasn’t. We were eating spaghetti, cheap spaghetti, because apparently the golden child’s future doesn’t leave room in the budget for parmesan, when Dad leaned back and said, did you hear about that guy in the next town? I kept twirling pasta. What guy? Delivery rider. Fell off his work bike. Broke his arm. Company had to pay him six figures. Just for a broken arm.
Mom actually laughed. Can you imagine? He gets a year’s salary just like that. Some people are lucky. They all laughed. Even my sister, belly round under her sweatshirt, fork hovering in midair like she was already cashing checks in her head. fork hovering in midair like she was already cashing checks in her head.
I laughed too, because what else was I supposed to do? But the sound caught in my throat. Something about the way my parents’ eyes lit up. Just a flicker, a glint, made my stomach twist. At the time, I told myself it was nothing. Just dinner chatter. Just one of those weird stories people tell to fill silence.
Huh, can you imagine? Six figures for falling off a bike. But later, lying in bed, I couldn’t shake it. That look. That laugh. That moment. I’d thought my near-miss earlier that day was just bad luck. A truck, a wobble, a fall. But what if luck wasn’t the point? What if they were waiting for something worse? I rolled over, pulled the blanket to my chin, and stared at the ceiling crack shaped like a river.
My chest felt tight. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was imagining it. But deep down, I knew. And the next time I touched that bike, I was going to find out the truth, whether I wanted to or not. I didn’t sleep that night. Not a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the truck’s headlights.
And right behind them, my dad’s hands on the brake cables that morning. Spongy, he’d said. Spongy. My brain replayed that word on a loop, like a bad pop song. By the time the sun crawled through my curtains, I was officially losing it. I couldn’t keep pretending it was just bad luck. But I also didn’t want to believe the alternative. That my parents were…
What? Setting me up? Who does that? Parents are supposed to make you wear helmets, not sabotage them. At breakfast, Dad tapped his spoon against his mug like a metronome and said, real casual, I’ll take another look at the bike today. Might need to adjust the cable again. My toast turned to dust in my mouth. Another look. My skin prickled.
I managed a nod like, sure, Dad, thanks for keeping me alive one pothole at a time. Inside, I was screaming. That was the moment I knew I couldn’t just sit around waiting for the next crash. I needed proof. Not just feelings, not just paranoia. Evidence. So after breakfast, I told them I was going into town. They thought I meant work.
What I actually meant was the electronics shop. Turns out you can buy a hidden camera for less than a week’s worth of tips. Sleek little thing, small enough to tuck behind the paint cans in the garage. The guy at the counter raised his eyebrows when I asked how long it would record. I just shrugged. Long enough. He didn’t ask more questions.
Probably thought I was trying to catch a cheating boyfriend. If only. That night, while Mom hummed in the kitchen and Dad watched TV, I snuck into the garage. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the damn thing. I wedged the camera between the shelf and the wall, angled right at the bike stand where Dad always crouched.
Then I went back inside, heart pounding, and pretended to care about whatever sitcom laugh track was echoing from the living room. The plan was simple. Tomorrow, I’d fake a normal morning, act like I was going to work. But I wouldn’t. I’d hide the bike, take the day off, and wait. Easy. Except nothing about it was easy.
The next morning, I put on my uniform, slung my bag over my shoulder, and wheeled the bike out the door with my best fake smile. See you tonight, I called. Be careful on that bike, Dad said. The words landed like a stone in my stomach. I pushed the bike down the street, turned the corner, and hid it behind a dumpster behind the library. Not glamorous, but safe.
Then I sat on a bench with my phone in my hand, trying to act like a regular teenager scrolling through memes. But my brain wasn’t laughing at cats in sweaters. My brain was counting heartbeats. I couldn’t go back right away. Too suspicious. So I killed hours in town. Walked laps through the park. Bought a coffee I didn’t taste. Sat in the library pretending to read while my eyes kept sliding off the page.
All I could think about was the garage, the shelf, the camera, my dad’s hands. By the time I finally walked home, my legs felt like rubber bands stretched too tight. Mom was at the sink, humming again. Dad wasn’t in sight. Dad wasn’t in sight. Back early? she asked, surprised. Short shift, I lied, forcing a smile. My heart was hammering so loud I thought she’d hear it.
I went upstairs, dumped my bag, waited, listened. They settled into their routine. TV on, dishes clinking, the low buzz of normal life. My chance. I crept down the hall, every floorboard squeaking like an alarm. At the garage door I paused, ears straining. Nothing. Inside, the air smelled like oil and dust.
My bike leaned against the stand, innocent as ever. I crouched by the shelf, fingers shaking, and pulled the camera free. Footsteps upstairs. My whole body froze. They passed. I shoved the camera under my sweater and slipped back inside, climbing the stairs two at a time. My heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest.
In my room, I locked the door, yanked my laptop open, and plugged in the camera. The file blinked up on screen. One video. I clicked. There was the garage, grainy and still. A few minutes of nothing. Then movement. Dad walked in, toolbox in hand, whistling. He crouched by the bike, back to the camera. My throat tightened. He reached for the brake cables.
Tools clinked. He loosened, adjusted. Loosened again. Not fixing. Breaking. On purpose. Then Mom appeared in the doorway, arms folded. She leaned in close. Whispered something. I turned up the volume. Not too much, she said. Just enough. Just enough. My whole body went cold.
I watched him tug the cables again, then step back, I watched him tug the cables again, then step back, satisfied. He wiped his hands on a rag, glanced toward the door, and left. I slammed the laptop shut, shoved it away like it had burned me. My breath came in short, jagged gasps. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t me. It was them. My own parents. You’d think after watching my dad sabotage my bike on camera, I’d cry or scream or throw something.
I didn’t. I just sat there, laptop humming on my desk, my hands shaking like I’d just drunk six coffees on an empty stomach. My parents, the people who told me to wear helmets and look both ways had tried to engineer my accidents. And not just once. Over and over.
I closed the laptop, slid it under my bed like it was toxic waste, and sat very still. That’s when the thought hit me. What do you even do when you’re parents are trying to kill you. Or, not kill me, I reminded myself, because apparently that made it better. Just injure me for money. Oh good. What a relief. My first instinct was to tell someone. But who? My friends would probably think I was being dramatic. Teachers? I wasn’t in school anymore. The neighbor? Too awkward.
There was only one option left. The one I didn’t want. The police. The idea of walking into a station with my shaky little SD card and saying, hi, my parents tried to maim me for insurance money, felt like the start of a very bad joke. But the alternative was pretending it was fine.
And if I’d learned anything from my ceiling crack staring contests at night, it was that pretending doesn’t actually keep you alive. So I went. The station smelled like burnt coffee and wet carpet. A bored officer at the desk raised his eyebrows when I said, I need to report my parents. He clicked his pen. For what? Trying to make me crash my work bike, I said, my voice coming out steadier than I felt.
I have video proof. That got his attention. Within minutes, I was in a bland little interview room, plastic chairs, buzzing light. They asked for my statement. I told them everything. The falls, the near misses, the weird way my parents kept asking if I was injured, the funny story about the guy who got a payout.
over the footage. The officer plugged it in, watched for maybe ten seconds, and his whole posture changed. He didn’t look bored anymore. You did the right thing, he said. We’ll handle it from here. I nodded, but my stomach didn’t unclench. Because here’s the thing. We’ll handle it doesn’t make you feel safe when the people you’re scared of are the same ones who tuck you in at night. They didn’t send me home. Thank God.
Instead, they called my aunt, the one who always bought me books for Christmas and smelled like peppermint tea. She picked me up, hugged me tighter than anyone had in months, and said, you’re staying with me now. Her spare room had mismatched sheets and a poster of kittens on the wall, left over from when her own daughter was little. It was the nicest place I’d ever slept.
But even there, tucked in under pink and yellow comforters, I couldn’t relax. Because my phone kept buzzing, missed calls, voicemails, texts, from Mom. From Dad. Over and over. I didn’t answer. Not once. But I listened to one voicemail just to torture myself. Mom’s voice, sharp with anger. How could you? You don’t know what you’ve done. I threw the phone onto the pillow like it was hot.
you’ve done. I threw the phone onto the pillow like it was hot. My aunt came in, frowned at the buzzing screen and said, block them. I can’t, I whispered. And I meant it. Blocking them felt too final. Too much like admitting they weren’t really my parents anymore. The next day the police called. My parents had been arrested, questioned, released. I wasn’t surprised. That’s how it works.
Arrest, paperwork, bail. They weren’t sitting in cells forever just because I wished it, which meant the calls didn’t stop. Then one evening, my aunt’s phone rang. I heard her in the kitchen, voice sharp. No, she doesn’t want to. Fine, hold on. She poked her head into my room. They want to talk to you. Over video. Just for a minute. I froze.
Every cell in my body screamed no. But another part of me, the part that wanted answers, nodded. Okay. We set up the laptop on the kitchen table. My aunt hovered close, arms crossed. The screen blinked. And there they were. My parents. They didn’t look sorry. They looked furious. You have no idea what you’ve done, Dad said first, his voice tight.
what you’ve done, Dad said first, his voice tight. I swallowed. I think I do. Mom leaned forward. We weren’t trying to kill you. Don’t be ridiculous. Oh, great, I said, my laugh hollow. That makes it fine then. It was just supposed to be a small accident, Dad snapped. A broken bone, something that heals. Do you know what that would have meant? One payout could have changed everything.
My chest went cold. For who? For you! Mom shot back. For all of us. You’d have money for college. Your sister could start her life. We could find breathe. My hands curled into fists. So my life? My safety? Worth what? A deposit? A wedding dress? She’s pregnant! Mom’s voice cracked. She needs us. She needs stability.
And you? What do you have? A job on a bike? You could have had millions, just like that man in the next town. And you wouldn’t even have noticed a broken arm in the long run. I laughed again, sharp and bitter. You wanted me in a hospital so she could have a house. You wanted me bleeding so she could have flowers at her wedding. Dad’s face darkened. You’re ungrateful. We did this for you, too.
You’d never make money on your own. This was your chance. And there it was. The truth. Laid bare. Like a knife on the table. I felt something in me snap. I leaned forward, close to the camera, and said, steady as stone, You weren’t doing it for me. You were willing to risk my life again and again because she mattered more than I ever did.
You never thought about me. Only her. And now? You’ve lost both of us. Mom opened her mouth. My aunt slammed the laptop shut. Silence filled the kitchen. My hands shook so badly I had to hold on to the edge of the table. For the first time in months, I could breathe. But here’s the thing. Closure isn’t neat.
It doesn’t tie itself up in bows. Even as I sat there, chest heaving, I knew it wasn’t over. Even as I sat there, chest heaving, I knew it wasn’t over. There’d be trials, hearings, questions. I didn’t know how long it would take or what exactly would happen. All I knew was that for the first time in my life, the weight wasn’t on me anymore.
And for the first time, I was free. Or at least, I thought I was. The trial didn’t take long. The footage spoke louder than I ever could. My parents were convicted of reckless endangerment, child cruelty, and conspiracy to commit fraud. Four years in prison. The judge also ordered restitution. Not millions like they dreamed of. Just enough to hurt.
They had to sell the house. Their precious family home turned into a payout for the daughter they tried to sacrifice. The irony wasn’t lost on me. My sister found out the truth during the trial. She was horrified. She cut ties, too. Moved into a cramped rental with her boyfriend and the baby. No wedding, no house, no miracle fix.
She still sends me photos of my niece, but there’s no mention of our parents. Not anymore. Fast forward a year. I’m 18 now. I lived with my aunt until this week, when I packed up and moved into my dorm. The restitution money is covering tuition and rent. For the first time in my life, I’m building something that belongs to me.
No strings attached, no bike fixes, no golden child to measure myself against. Just me. Sometimes I still wake up at night with the sound of brakes failing in my head, but then I look around my tiny dorm room and I smile. Because I survived. They thought they could buy my sister’s future with my pain. Instead, I bought my own. So what do you think? Did I go too far? Or not far enough? Let me know in the comments.
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