My story could have played out differently. It could have been immediately filled with grace for him. At once, forgiveness could have sat with us at a holiday table. Instead, he lied.
I became despised and abhorred by his family. They are no longer my family.
As a survivor of his crimes, I struggled to find my worth in this world. His invalidation of me kept me hidden in dark places for years and years. The flesh wounds he inflicted upon me by his denial were constant afflictions.
If he had loved any of us, he would have told the truth.
I have learned to rely not on a human-made love with its bullshit traditions wrapped in silence. Don’t speak, don’t talk, don’t tell. I now rely on a love that comes down from above.
I struggled for years desiring the love of my parents. Trying to believe they were something different than they are. That is, until I found out what love was supposed to look like. Love is supposed to protect. They did not. Love is supposed to trust. They offered no trust. Love is not supposed to injure. They injured me consistently.
I could still be waiting for an apology. I’m not. I could still be waiting for them to love to me. I’m not.