Fourth grade was the year I told my mother that her “husband” was molesting me. I didn’t have the vocabulary, but I told her what was going on. I had been taught to “always listen to grown-ups,” especially a grown-up that would beat me if I didn’t listen. So I never thought to question his actions. I was used to him hurting me physically—used to being forced to endure it—and not having my mother’s protection. This just seemed like a continuation of the same. But there was something about the way he reacted to hearing someone in the hall that made me suspect he was doing something he knew was
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