They made us serve as acolytes. White robes. Reverent faces. We’d sit up front, holding a cross or candle, staring out across the congregation, and over time, familiar faces began to register. As in, we recognized them. Which is the thing about physical abuse. It’s face-to-face. These were men of standing, successful, powerful, who bought what they wanted, when they wanted. Sitting properly next to their wives and kids. Completing the act. But our bodies told a different drama. Our bodies were keeping score.
