When I Reported My Rapist, My Father Failed Me

I wanted his love and support — he wanted vengeance

Miranda G. Triay
Human Parts
Published in
4 min readJul 22, 2019

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Picture of father and daughter on top a bush of red and pink Chinese roses. Photo: Miranda G. Triay

I had no intention of telling you.

At first, I asked my mother. The memory of my rape was a hodgepodge: I clearly remembered the incident itself but struggled with the exact date, my rapist’s name, and even his face. My mind had tried to free me by smearing his eyes and nose and mouth, but without that information my resolve seemed futile.

My older brother told me his name. I found his face in my younger brother’s high school football program. But my mother didn’t remember the date.

I needed that date, so we called you.

When you came home, I sat with my back to the kitchen wall, tearstained, fingernails digging into my bare knees. My mother sat behind the couch, distant eyes watching the fans spin above us. Her first instinct was to greet you in the kitchen, to leave me and console you.

But as her gaze met mine, something within her stilled, and she continued to sit. To stay with me as you invaded our quiet, our peace, with the decision I had made hours earlier.

I knew what you would say. Sometimes I think we’re the same. Throughout the years, you’ve looked at me as though I were a mirror, reflecting the resentment that swells inside you. The resentment you refuse to acknowledge, that you used to lash out at your family.

And that day, the day I reported my rapist, you walked into the living room, looked down at me, and said, “The night you told me, I told you to report it, Miranda.”

I knew what you would say, but cold shock still coiled around my chest and slithered up my throat, making it so difficult to breathe. To speak.

I knew you would lie, but a piece of me — the piece that’s still a child, that still dares to adore her father unconditionally — hoped you wouldn’t.

I did not confront the lie. My mother and I kept silent as you continued, and my heart sunk further and further until nothing but a nauseating black void filled the crevices between my lungs.

“Now they’re gonna call your brother, and he has a baby now, Miranda,” you continued. “He had underage kids drinking in my…

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Miranda G. Triay
Human Parts

Writer. Reader. 90s Magical Girl. MA in philosophy, but don’t call me a philosopher. Tweet @mirandagtriay | pronouns: they/them, she/her