“Behind every beautiful thing, there’s some kind of pain.” —Bob Dylan. Every story has a climax–the part in which the protagonist has to overcome an obstacle they face. To simply put things into perspective, my obstacle was my father.
Reaching the middle of my twelfth year, life was great. It was summer outside, and every day my brother and I would enjoy the refreshing summer breeze. With no recent confrontation between parents, life could be described, honestly, as perfect. But as quickly as all beautiful things in my life begin, this simple paradise came crashing down just as fast.
It is a beautiful August morning, and I am sitting on a tan couch in the back room of my house. Vince is sitting on a couch in the living room watching television. I have no idea where my father is, and just like her mother, Nevaeh is sleeping. I am ambitiously deciding to create a secret language for my brother and I. As if appearing out of thin air, my dad walks into the back door and lays onto the shag carpeting. While laying down, my dad asks, “Can you come over here princess?” Like any other request, I do.
As I lean over him, his breath— smelling disgustingly of onions— is blowing directly into the nostrils of my nose. A few seconds pass as he searches my eyes deeply for an answer which seems to be well hidden. Without consent, he begins kissing my lips in a fierce unloving way. As I pull back, my father looks me dead in the eyes and tells me, “You want to make me happy, right? I promise this is okay, and you will make me happy by doing this.” Tears accumulate in my eyes as the soft touch of his fingertips find places he told me no one is supposed to touch. He jerks his head back as one of my tears falls gracefully down my cheek, and he again stares into my eyes as if to search for some well hidden answer.
On what started off as a beautiful day in August, my father molested me. While my mother confronted me, I found out that she had witnessed the entire scene yet did absolutely nothing to stop it. She then made me choose whether or not to call the police on my father. My father kneeled, like a dog begging for treats, and pleaded, “I will give you anything. I am begging that you do not pick up that phone and call!” I, believing that he was immune to it, had seen my father actually start crying. Keeping my promise to protect my sister at all costs, I decided to call the police.
Staying at the hospital until about three o’clock in the morning of the following day did not settle well with a one year old baby and an eleven year old who had absolutely no clue why we were there. Rest was an absolute must from the previous day’s events, but how was I supposed to sleep knowing that my father was still out there? Finally exhaust consumed me as my mind started to fade to the black abyss.
The days that followed were not all I was hoping for. My father would sleep in the garage outside. One evening while we were eating dinner, Vince saw him leaving the garage and decided—instead of taking only one—to take two plates outside, one for his father and one for himself. I knew at that moment two things: Vince needed a father, and things were about to change.
And things did change. Within the following week, my father slowly worked his way back into the house.
No one seemed to notice but me.
As September arrived, school was coming close to beginning, and our family seemed as normal as we were exposed to. A few weeks into school, DCFS (Department of Child and Family Services) questioned me on the accused molestation. That day, October 7, 2015, was the final day I was in the custody of Victoria and Ron.