I repeated that phrase in my head over and over in the weeks after I kicked Bill out. I watched my older sister go through the death of her son. I still had my children. I needed to hold onto that thought. If I lost one, my life would end. My life wasn't going to end but having someone hurt one of your children is only trumped by losing them. Every waking thought was filled with fear of how I could save my Sissy from this awful, awful pain from the man she loved and trusted most.
When Sissy came home that day, I wrapped her in my arms and explained to her how her father had confessed and that I removed him from the house. Her little body shook with sobs that came from her toes. “I trusted him with my life mom,” she cried “and he let me down in the biggest way.”
“Oh, baby,” I tried to sooth her and set her 15 year old body on my lap and rocked her like the baby she would always be to me. “I am so proud of you for telling me sweetie. We will get through this somehow.”
She was going to need intense therapy, perhaps the rest of her life. We needed to start that process. I needed to explain to her that when we contacted a therapist, they would need to contact the authorities and start the prosecution process of her father. I also realized that being the High School Secretary – I was a mandated reporter and by law, was required to report even a suspicion of child abuse.
She slept with me that night, and many nights after. She began sleeping with a light on and still does to this day. I held her close that night and smoothed her hair and wiped her tears each time she woke up and her trauma came rushing back into her heart. We shared a pillow. It was soaked with tears by the morning.
When she woke up, I brought her a cup of cocoa in bed. We snuggled together while she sipped it. Then I began the conversation with her that I dreaded. I explained to her that the pain in her heart needed to come out. If she left it there, it would come out some way and probably not a healthy way. I wanted her heart to heal, but we needed someone who knew what they were doing-a professional- to heal it in the very best way.
“Can I talk to Mrs. Sun the counselor at school mom?” She questioned.
“Of course Sweetie we can start there and she will help us.” Then I added “But honey, any counselor will need to report this to the police.”
She dropped her mug and the chocolate spread across the comforter.
“Mommy, please don’t send my daddy to jail.”
Before I could answer, she was up and running to the bathroom. What hot cocoa she did get down was coming back up.
