There are nights when sleep eludes me, and my thoughts drift back to a significant moment from my childhood when I was just 10 years old. I remember visiting my grandparents’ home, which was five states away from my own. I found myself hiding behind the china cabinet, listening to the heated argument between my grandmother and grandfather over the kitchen bar.
In that moment, dressed in my cream pajamas adorned with tiny rosebuds, I realized something troubling. My grandmother warned my grandfather, saying, “People will start to notice when you favor her over her brother.” It struck me hard—she was choosing him, my grandfather, over me, their granddaughter. My heart sank, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as the terrible truth sank in: she was aware of what he was doing to me and was giving him tips on how to keep our secret hidden.
She was fully aware, and she chose him. She opted for the comfort of their shared life, rolling over in bed at night when he would leave to come into mine. Instead of ensuring I was safe, she placed me in the bedroom across the hall from them, making it easier for him to reach me. She knew the threats he had used to silence me for all those years, and she groomed my parents, his own son, to trust him with me. It was an unthinkable betrayal.
For her, the allure of wealth and security outweighed the well-being of an innocent child. My parents, however, made a different choice. They chose me, and they often told me that prioritizing my safety and happiness was the simplest decision they ever made. They were committed to supporting my healing journey, even after I developed severe anorexia as a coping mechanism for the abuse. This marked the beginning of a tumultuous period in my life, filled with shame, anger, and grief.
Years later, I recognized that my family dynamic was far from normal compared to my peers. I remember sitting on a porch swing with a friend who complained about spending time with her grandmother. I couldn’t help but feel a mix of envy and sadness; while she looked forward to her family, I had no such joy. The weight of our family secret hung over me, suffocating my ability to connect with others.
My father had distanced himself from his family even before he became aware of the abuse. Once he knew, he and my mother made conscious choices to take assignments that kept us miles away, making it easier to avoid probing questions from neighbors and friends. Guilt became a persistent companion for me. I felt remorseful for the rift between my father and his family, and for denying my younger brother the extended family he deserved because of what I went through. I even felt guilty that moving away distanced us from my mother’s side of the family, who had never harmed me.
As the years passed, my grandparents attempted to re-enter our lives. Once a year, I would receive a check and a note reminding me that “blood is thicker than water” and referencing forgiveness in the Bible. For years, I would cash those checks and donate the money to a local rape crisis center. About a decade ago, when I relocated, my parents continued to receive those letters, which they shredded at my request. Eventually, the letters ceased.
Finding my own happiness, I married and started a family, hoping to provide my children with the extended family I longed for. We settled in a town where my husband’s family lives, allowing for crowded dinner tables during the holidays. My parents and brother are nearby, and we cherish the time spent together.
However, I didn’t anticipate the emotional challenge of giving my children what I missed out on. When my youngest son excitedly asks about his cousin’s arrival or when my brother comes over to ride bikes, a wave of grief and anger washes over me. I feel the familiar sting of shame, but over the years, I have learned to replace it with gratitude for the life I have created for them. I acknowledge these mixed emotions, but the positive aspects of my life far outweigh the negatives.
Trusting others with my children has been a significant leap of faith. I know that danger can lurk where it’s least expected, even among those we should trust the most. For the first few years of their lives, it physically hurt to let them out of my sight, fearing what could happen. However, I understood that I needed to overcome my fears to prevent passing my distrust onto them. This leap of faith has allowed me to learn to trust again and teach my children how to feel safe.
Thirty years later, our family secret is no longer hidden. With age, I’ve gained the wisdom that most families carry some form of dysfunction, even if they hide it better than others. I can only imagine the guilt my parents experienced, and I am eternally grateful they chose me over my grandfather and the financial security that would have come with ignoring the issue. They prioritized my happiness and future above all else. Looking back through the lens of grief and misplaced shame, I know I would make the same choice for my children because I understand how wonderful and fulfilling life can be on the other side.
If you’re interested in learning more about related topics, check out this post on Cervical Insemination. For those exploring home insemination options, Make a Mom offers reputable kits for at-home insemination. Additionally, March of Dimes is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, my journey from a traumatic childhood to a fulfilling adult life highlights the importance of prioritizing safety and well-being. The choices made by my parents were instrumental in shaping my future, and I now strive to provide my children with the love and family connections I once yearned for.