My fingers trembled when I dialed the phone. It was the early ’90s, back before texting or email. In fact, I’d just replaced my beige wall phone with a chunky wireless. Four rings in, I was about to hang up when my brother’s voice finally answered. I sputtered out what I needed to say: When I was a little girl, one of our family members sexually molested me. The abuse went on for years.
My therapist thought it would be healing for me to tell my family. She warned me that sometimes families can react in unpredictable ways. They might call me a liar, say that I’m crazy or sever the relationship. She told me that in her practice, she’d seen people written out of inheritances, banished from their homes and blamed for having been victims. I guess she just wanted me to be prepared.
On a wooden chair under a dim overhead light, I stared at the burn mark on my dining room table. I was 28 years old and struggling. I’d already told my two sisters about what happened, but opening up to the guys in my family was harder. After I gushed out my news, there was silence. At first, I wondered if we’d been disconnected, but I could feel my brother’s attention on the other end of the line. I could picture him taking in the secret I’d kept all my life. My fingers were white from clutching the phone, and I waited for him to say something.
