I was nine years old the night that I told my mother, for the second time, what my stepfather had been doing to me when she wasn’t home. The next day, I sat in an office with a tape recorder and a police officer, describing everything I could remember of the past five years and how it had started and when the last time he’d touched me had been.
I wish I recalled sweet aromas during holidays or laughter at family functions during my childhood. Instead I recall crying until I couldn’t see while my uncle molested me. For years I kept this secret until I confronted him. We talked for an hour. He had also been molested. The molestation traveled from generation to generation, like a big snake that grows bigger).