My uncle was a pedifile. I had lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins, but all of us knew that this one was a pedifile. I was three when I first noticed something was wrong. Thanksgiving was at their house that year and the whole family got together. We came from the furthest away, having to drive three hours to get there. I don’t remember feeling like the drive was long; however, I very specifically remember my mom’s warning while we were still in the car: “Don’t go anywhere alone with your uncle.” 

My sister and I had lots of questions, but I can’t remember which ones we asked. We didn’t want to be rude. It seemed strange that if a grown up was going to ask us to do something that we would–or even could!–say, “no.” She also told us that if anyone ever asks us to keep something a secret from her, it is probably something that is very important for us to share with her right away. As an adult, the context of these things makes sense, but at the time it was very strange. 

Thanksgivings with my mom’s family always took forever. Whatever time we were promised to eat was between 2 and 4 hours off from the actual meal. As a kid, I didn’t eat much anyway, but it was still hard to wait. It was even harder to be still while waiting. Eventually, the pit in my stomach grew larger and I didn’t stay in the same room for more than a minute or two. Running and hiding were entertaining enough to help me wait a little longer. 

My uncle stopped me, “Would you like a soda?” It was the first time I ever saw a man look at me the way he did and suddenly I wished I’d stayed in the same room with my parents. Still, a soda would be nice. I was very thirsty, and I hadn’t been told not to accept a drink from him. I finally nodded. “Well come on then.” He took my hand and we started walking towards the garage. 

I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I remember eying him suspiciously. I still felt as if I could fight if anything strange happened. At the moment, nothing seemed strange and it would have been odd to pull away. Once we were in the garage, the door shut and I realized I’d broken my promise to my parents. He was still looking at me funny. He put his hands on my waste and hoisted me up to sit on a cooler. Then went to the fridge and grabbed a soda as promised. As he handed it to me, my dad bursted through the door. 

“Stay away from my daughter!” I was immediately apologetic as my mom followed him in and picked me up off the cooler. 

“Hey, man, I just got the girl a drink.” My uncle put his hands up and backed away, but he gave me one last look before my mom carried me out of the room. 

“Sorry, mommy, I thought it was okay.” My heart was pounding. I knew I’d messed up. My mom assured me she was just glad I was safe, but not long after I remember us leaving. 

That was one of the only days I can remember that my dad’s presence made me feel safe. As an adult, I have no idea why no one reported my uncle. The look he gave me starting at age three continued at a distance until I was seven. After that, he looked like he was disgusted by me. I knew it should have been a relief, but it stung a little to think I could disgust someone like that. 

When I was twelve, I started attracting another set of eyes from men in the community. Not every man, but a stranger at a gas station or a grocery store would stair. It turns out, the remote country town in which we lived was an easy place for pedifiles to hide. There were more housing options far enough from the school for them to find. More often, I watched the men eye my older sister. It was at that time I started to piece together the meaning behind the look. 

It was the undressing with the eyes that came from a desire I had not yet woken in myself. At age fourteen, I couldn’t escape it. Thanks to my uncle, I knew it was something to stay away from, but it made me feel like I couldn’t leave my house without being unsafe. I learned to ignore it. I kept my head down when we were in public and tried not to notice. My house was the only place I didn’t have to worry. Then, at sixteen, I started getting the same look from my father. 

He prided himself later in life that he never acted on his desires, but I knew as soon as they were there. Any ounce of safety I may have felt lingering from the lone childhood memory faded. It became yet another reason to avoid him at all cost, and another reason to believe there was no way I’d live to see freedom.

Note: This is a true story about events that have not been embellished. While comments are welcome, they are screened to maintain the integrity of the site, prevent foul language, and prevent spam. All comments submitted from real readers will be published even if they are disagreed with.

If you or someone you love has or is experiencing sexual assault, please consider visiting the National Sexual Assault Hotline.

If you or someone you love is experiencing domestic violence and seeking help, please visit the Domestic Violence National Hotline.

Due to the business of life and the heaviness of this content, I do not always post regularly; so, if you would like my new post to come directly to your email, please subscribe.