When I Reported My Rapist, My Father Failed Me
I wanted his love and support — he wanted vengeance
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…
