I woke early, long before the sun was even a suggestion on the horizon. \u00a0\n<\/p>\n
I\u2019d barely slept all night, mind and heart racing in fear, preparing for\u00a0 this day that would change everything. When the day ended, I would be\u00a0one of two things: either dead, or free. Right now, either option sounded\u00a0good.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
It was so cold, I could see my breath, as I rose on one elbow and gazed\u00a0 at Bethany, my beautiful 20-month-old baby, sleeping soundly beside\u00a0 me. I quickly undid my nightshirt and clasped her to my breast, nursing\u00a0 her in the moonlight. This is it, I thought. It\u2019s now or never.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
I\u2019d spent more than a year planning to escape the fundamentalist,\u00a0 polygamous Mormon cult where my husband kept me, the first of his\u00a0six plural wives, broken and brutalized, underfed and perpetually pregnant. I had been raised since birth to serve as my husband\u2019s handmaid and\u00a0helpmeet. But at age 34, I was terrified and couldn\u2019t hold on much\u00a0 longer. We leave now, or we die trying.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
Milk-drunk and drowsy, Bethany drifted back to sleep as I slid from bed and tiptoed to the room where three of my sons slept. I woke the older two, 16-year-old Hyrum and Mosiah, nearly 13, and sent them\u00a0out to feed and milk the goats. The boys were already dressed \u2014 all the\u00a0kids were. I had put them to bed fully clothed, to hasten our exit in the\u00a0 morning, before anyone noticed we were gone.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
Next, I woke the girls: Lucy, 14; Melanie, 11; Jennifer, 9;\u00a0 and Pammy, 6, and had the older girls help the younger kids get ready,\u00a0including 3-year-old Joshua Thomas. My firstborn, David Jr., almost\u00a0 18, had already left home \u2014 and Mexico \u2014 to work in Colorado.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
While the kids got ready, I dressed in a hurry and went out to help\u00a0Hyrum and Mosiah bring in the milk. Miles from any large city, the stars\u00a0were out in full, and I shivered at a distant coyote\u2019s mournful cry.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
Pamela enjoys a lightheartedd moment with her daughter.<\/p>\n
Daniel Sellers, Sellers Studios<\/p>\n
In the driveway, our two vehicles huddled like silent co-conspirators:\u00a0my Plymouth Voyager, and Hyrum\u2019s white Toyota truck packed with our\u00a0luggage \u2014 four little suitcases, four brightly colored Mexican blankets, one\u00a020-ounce jug of water. That was all. Left behind were the few items\u00a0my husband allowed me to own \u2014 some clothes, my wedding dress, a\u00a0 handful of photos, letters from Mama, even my underwear. I was starting over with nothing but the dream of a better life.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n
As I stood in the paddock, petting the goats and bidding goodbye\u00a0to Shaggy, Pinta and my beloved Brownie, I looked back at our house,\u00a0memorizing the dull adobe walls, cold concrete floor, three small bed rooms and single bath. We had little electricity and almost no running\u00a0 water, so we hauled water from the communal greenhouse in 50-gallon\u00a0barrels, then separated it into buckets for drinking and washing. We\u00a0 flushed our only toilet with buckets of water twice daily, once at night and\u00a0again in the morning, using dirty bathtub or dishpan water. We were an\u00a0 American family, living this way at the dawn of the twenty-first century.\u00a0But no longer, after today, I thought.\n<\/p>\n
‘The Dirt Beneath Our Door’ by Pamela Jones.<\/p>\n
Daniel Sellers, Sellers Studios<\/p>\n
Take PEOPLE with you!\u00a0Subscribe to PEOPLE magazine<\/a>\u00a0to get the latest details on celebrity news, exclusive royal updates, how-it-happened true crime stories and more \u2014 right to your mailbox.<\/strong>\n<\/p>\n Back inside, I prepared bottles of goat\u2019s milk for Bethany and Joshua.\u00a0I bottle-fed all my children until age 5, so at least they ate when the rest\u00a0of us either went hungry or consumed food infested with flies, weevils or\u00a0maggots. I glanced at the clock: 5:17 a.m.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n I herded the kids outside, some protesting at the early hour, stomping and dragging their feet, others remaining silent, slow-boiling with excitement. Hyrum and Mosiah climbed into the truck while I loaded the others into the Voyager before going back inside, Bethany on my hip, for one\u00a0final walk-through. The place was spotless: cupboards cleared, beds made,\u00a0dishes washed and stored. Since birth it had been drilled into me that if\u00a0I ever tried to leave the cult, God would punish me by taking my life and\u00a0my children\u2019s, and I feared I was about to die. But I was determined to go\u00a0with a clean house and a clear conscience.\u00a0\n<\/p>\n Pamela Jones and her new husband.<\/p>\n Daniel Sellers, Sellers Studios<\/p>\n As I approached the front door and prepared to cross the threshold, I held Bethany close while I had it out with my God, my savior, judge and redeemer. \u201cTake me now,\u201d I challenged. \u201cIf this is it, I\u2019ll explain my\u00a0actions to you in Heaven.\u201d\u00a0\n<\/p>\n