Sophia, late 40s
Our house burned down a couple of weeks before my third birthday, and my parents and I went to stay with my father’s sister and her husband. There were a lot of kids in the house, including a teenaged uncle of mine — he must have been no older than 15 at the time. He was bold about it. The only room in the house that had a lock was the bathroom, which happened to be right next to the kitchen. He would take me there to molest me while my mother was right next door, making us snacks.
I didn’t tell anyone about what happened to me until I was 22. I told my first serious boyfriend, who didn’t know what to do with the information. At around the same time, I told my mom and dad. My brother — I’m pretty certain he was molested, too — was a witness but not a participant to some of what happened to me. We’ve never talked about it. When I told my parents, my mother was outraged and my dad was mum but horrified. And that lasted for about a day; then, we never talked about it again. A few days later, my mother got me a dog, like some sort of consolation prize.
Thankfully, I only have a very spotty memory of the two years during which my uncle had easy access to me. I don’t remember there having been any penetration — he only touched and performed oral sex on me. I’ve been to therapy for very many years and, for the most part, I’ve come to terms with what happened. There’s only one thing about those years that still haunts me.
For the rest of Sophia’s story, head on over here, to The Outline.