I came to live with a friendly family through a student exchange program. At first glance, everything seemed fine. But soon I realized that the Rosenthal family were the strangest people I had ever met. What I discovered made my life in their home unbearable.
I sat on the plane, watching as the clouds drifted by. Thoughts swirled in my head: I didn’t want to follow my parents’ career path or attend the university they had chosen for me.
I was always drawn to creativity, especially photography, but I wasn’t accepted into any art schools. So, the exchange program became my chance to delay the education I did not want.
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The hum of the plane’s engine was soothing, almost hypnotic. I leaned back in my seat, trying to imagine what awaited me in this foreign land.
“Maybe this will be my big break,” I thought, trying to convince myself that this journey was the start of something wonderful.
After a long flight, I finally landed and was greeted by the Rosenthal family. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal stood holding a sign with my name, their smiles wide and welcoming. They seemed very friendly.
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“Welcome, Mia!” Mr. Rosenthal said, shaking my hand vigorously.
“It’s so nice to meet you!” Mrs. Rosenthal added, pulling me into a brief, stiff hug.
We drove for a long time to their home, and during the ride, they asked me about my life, hobbies, and plans.
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“So, Mia, tell us about your family,” Mrs. Rosenthal began, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“Um, well, my parents are both lawyers. They wanted me to follow in their footsteps, but I’m more into photography,” I explained, feeling a bit like I was under a spotlight.
“Photography? How interesting!” Mr. Rosenthal said, his voice a touch too enthusiastic. “Do you have any other hobbies?”
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I hesitated. “Not really. I like reading and, um, hiking sometimes.”
Their excessive politeness made me a bit uneasy, but I chalked it up to cultural differences.
We drove and drove—cities turned into towns, and towns into villages, until we were far from civilization.
They had written that they lived close to the airport, but we had been driving for nearly two hours when we finally arrived at a small settlement of about thirty houses.
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There was no sea, no forest, just endless fields stretching for miles in all directions.
When we finally reached their home, I was exhausted. The house was old and quaint, with a large porch and a garden full of wilting flowers.
“Welcome to our home, Mia,” Mr. Rosenthal said, opening the door with a creak. “We hope you’ll be very happy here.”
They introduced me to their children, Elias and Lena, who were not much younger than me but seemed much more peculiar.
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“Hi, I’m Mia,” I tried to sound cheerful.
Elias just stared, his eyes unblinking. Lena nodded, jotting something down in her notepad.
Before going to bed, I decided to explore the house a bit. Walking down the hallway, I accidentally glanced into the open door of the Rosenthals’ room and saw them both sitting on the floor, watching TV up close.
That wouldn’t be strange, except the sound was off. This puzzled me and gave me an uneasy feeling.
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Maybe the TV was just broken?
As I turned to leave, I noticed Elias standing silently behind me, his eyes wide with curiosity, making me jump in surprise.
“Uh, hey, Elias. Just exploring a bit,” I stammered.
He didn’t say anything, just continued to stare. I quickly walked back to my room, my heart pounding.
Lying in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.
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***
The following weeks were full of constant surprises. The Rosenthals had strange habits.
They never ate together, always watched TV with the sound off, and all the clocks in the house were set to different times.
One evening, I tried to turn on the TV volume.
“Maybe a little sound will help.”
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Mrs. Rosenthal immediately started screaming, covering her ears, while Mr. Rosenthal grabbed the remote and muted it again without a word. It was bizarre and unsettling.
Elias and Lena would always shadow me, reporting every single action to their parents. Their presence made it impossible for me to find any solitude or do anything for my soul.
One morning, while I was in the kitchen, Lena asked, scribbling in her notepad, “What’s that?”
“A smoothie,” I replied, feeling a bit annoyed. “It’s just fruits and vegetables.”
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“Why aren’t you eating meat?” Elias chimed in, appearing from nowhere.
“I’ve started practicing vegetarianism. It’s healthier for me.”
The Rosenthals tried to force me to eat meat, insisting it was important for my health.
“You need protein,” Mr. Rosenthal said, placing a steak on my plate. “You can’t survive on plants alone.”
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I began doing sports, hoping it would give me a break from the strange household, but they always found reasons for me to stay home and miss training sessions.
“Why do you need to run outside?” Mrs. Rosenthal asked one day. “We have plenty of space here.”
“Running in circles around the house isn’t the same,” I muttered to myself.
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Then I decided to keep a photo journal. With some money I had saved up, I bought an old camera and started taking pictures of everything around me. It became my only salvation.
I captured the endless fields, the eerie quiet of the village, and even the odd moments inside the house.
One day, in a store where I liked to go to maintain some connection with reality, I met a local journalist named Marta. She was looking at some camera lenses when I approached her.
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“Hi, do you know much about these?” I asked, holding up a lens.
She smiled warmly. “Sure, let me show you.”
Marta taught me how to take pictures and adjust the camera. She was very friendly and supported my creative aspirations.
I added photos to my journal, accompanying them with mini-articles about my impressions and observations. Marta became a mentor and a friend, someone who understood my passion.
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But the Rosenthals began to forbid me from taking photos, trying to break my will.
“Photography distracts you from your studies,” Mrs. Rosenthal said sternly one evening. “You need to focus more on our rules.”
They even banned me from seeing Marta. Once, I burst into tears without even managing to say hello to her.
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My temporary parents were relentless. Finally, they took my camera, and that was the last straw.
“You don’t need this,” Mr. Rosenthal said, placing it on a high shelf where I couldn’t reach.
I decided to run away. I couldn’t stay in this suffocating environment any longer.
As I lay in bed that night, I planned my escape, determined to reclaim my freedom and my passion for photography.
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***
The next morning, when the Rosenthals were supposed to be asleep, I packed my things and quietly slipped outside. My heart pounded with adrenaline as I walked down the deserted street.
I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. Turning around, I saw Mr. Rosenthal catching up with me, his face twisted with anger.
“Mia! You can’t just leave!” he yelled, his voice breaking the morning silence. “You’re under our protection!”
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I tried to keep walking, but he grabbed my arm, pulling me back.
“Let go of me!” I shouted, trying to wrench free. “I can’t stay here anymore!”
Our shouting attracted the neighbors’ attention. Doors opened, and curious faces peeked out.
Whispers and glances flew around as people stepped out of their houses, forming a small crowd around us.
“What’s going on here?” an elderly woman from across the street called out.
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“This girl thinks she can leave without permission,” Mr. Rosenthal barked, still holding onto my arm.
“I just want to leave,” I pleaded, looking around at the neighbors. “I can’t stay with them anymore. It’s too much.”
The murmurs grew louder as the neighbors discussed the situation.
“Maybe we should call someone from the exchange program,” a man suggested. “They can sort this out.”
“Until a representative arrives, you have to stay with the family,” another woman added, her tone firm. “It’s for your safety.”
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I felt tears welling up in my eyes. The crowd’s decision felt like a trap, but then I heard a familiar voice.
“Wait!” Marta pushed through the crowd, her expression determined.
“Marta!” I cried, relief flooding over me.
She put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
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“I’ll take Mia in,” she announced to the neighbors. “She can live with me until everything is sorted out.”
The people supported her.
“Fine,” Mr. Rosenthal muttered. “But this isn’t over.”
Marta gently guided me away from the crowd. “Let’s get you out of here.”
As we walked away, I glanced back to see the Rosenthals watching us. But I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, knowing I was finally free from their strange, suffocating world.
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***
The first week with Marta was incredible. We traveled around the city, visited various places, and took many photos. Each day was a new adventure.
We wandered through bustling markets, explored quiet parks, and even climbed to the top of the city’s tallest building to get a panoramic view.
Marta showed me how to capture the essence of each moment, teaching me the intricacies of photojournalism.
“Look at the light here,” she would say, pointing out how the sunlight filtered through the leaves. “It gives a warm tone to your photos.”
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I started keeping my photo journal with new energy.
Every night, I would sit down with my camera and journal, carefully selecting the best shots of the day and writing about my experiences. It felt exhilarating.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” Marta praised one evening as she looked through my latest entries. “Your photos tell a story.”
I felt that I had finally found my calling. Photography became not just a hobby, but a true passion.
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I began to see the world differently, noticing details I had overlooked before—the way shadows played on the ground, the expressions on people’s faces, the colors of the sky at dusk.
“Marta, I’ve decided something.”
“Oh? What’s that?” she asked, turning to face me with a curious smile.
“After the exchange program ends, I want to pursue photography professionally,” I declared. “I don’t want to go back to my old life.”
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Marta’s eyes sparkled with pride.
“That’s wonderful, Mia. You have real talent, and I believe you can achieve great things.”
This decision gave me strength and confidence. Moreover, Marta took some of my photos to an exhibition and sent them to a magazine.
When I found out that they were published, and I received my first, albeit small, fee, I was over the moon.
“Look, Marta! They published my photos!” I exclaimed, showing her the magazine.
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“I knew they would love your work,” Marta said, giving me a warm hug. “This is just the beginning for you.”
Thanks to Marta, I found my true calling and understood that sometimes, to find yourself, you need to go through difficulties and trials.
The challenges with the Rosenthals had been tough, but they led me to this moment of clarity and purpose.
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