John's obsession with my sisters was a slow, creeping poison that I didn't notice until it was too late. But the truth is, I should have seen it. I should have recognized the twisted hunger in his eyes. Because I knew what that looked like. I knew what it felt like.
I'd seen it before. I'd felt it before.
It started small. So small I almost didn't notice. A hand that lingered too long, a touch that felt wrong but didn't hurt. A brush of fingers, an arm around my shoulder, a hug that didn't let go fast enough. A boy, a family friend —someone I was supposed to trust. Someone who was supposed to be safe.
I was eleven. I told myself it was fine. I told myself it was just how friends were. That I was being dramatic. Overthinking. Because he was my friend. He was my age. He couldn't be doing anything wrong, right?
But it didn't stop. It didn't stay small.
His hands weren't just lingering anymore. They were grabbing. Pulling. Holding. Fingers twisting in my hair, pressing against my back, sliding down my arms. Tight. Too tight. And when I tried to pull away, his grip would tighten. When I tried to laugh it off, his smile twisted.
I didn't know how to say no. I didn't even know I could. My voice felt like a trapped breath, my chest a locked box. I told myself I was imagining it. I told myself it wasn't that bad. I told myself I was being dramatic. Because if it was real, if it was wrong— then what? What was I supposed to do?
So I stayed silent. I laughed when I was supposed to laugh. I smiled when he smiled. I learned to become a ghost in my own skin. Pretending not to feel, pretending not to notice, pretending that nothing was wrong.
But the pretending didn't protect me.
It got worse.
Because his hands weren't just grabbing. They were exploring. Pushing. Pulling me closer. His voice would drop to a low whisper, his breath hot against my ear. "Don't tell anyone. It's just our secret." His smile would turn sharp, his touch turning possessive. I was a doll in his hands— something to hold, to touch, to play with.
Every touch felt like a stain I couldn't wash off. Every whispered promise twisted in my chest. But I didn't know how to fight it. I didn't know how to escape. I told myself it would stop. That he would grow out of it. That it was just a phase.
Until the last time.
Until the final time.
I was fourteen. Taller now, a little braver, a little louder. But still caught in that same twisting silence whenever he was near. Still pretending. Still trying to be good, to be polite, to be nice.
But his hands didn't care about polite. His smile didn't care about nice. His voice didn't care about my silence.
And when it went too far, when his hands weren't just grabbing but forcing, when his voice wasn't just whispering but demanding. I didn't laugh. I didn't smile. I screamed. I cried. I fought him. I tore at his hands, pushed at his chest, kicked and clawed until his shock turned to anger and he shoved me away.
He stopped.
But that didn't take it away.
It didn't erase it.
His fingerprints were still on my skin. His voice still echoed in my ears. The shame clung to me like a shadow, heavy, thick, choking. I tried to wash it off, tried to scrub it away, but it was inside me. Wrapped around my thoughts. Whispering that it was my fault. That I let it happen. That I didn't say no soon enough.
I never told anyone. Not then. Not for years. Because who would believe me? Because if I told, I'd have to explain. I'd have to admit that I'd let it happen. That I didn't fight right away. That I didn't scream the first time. That I'd tried to pretend everything was okay for so long that I didn't even know how to make it stop.
So I locked it away. I smiled. I laughed. I pretended. Because if I didn't think about it, maybe it would go away.
But it didn't. It never did.
So I knew. I knew what those looks meant. I knew what that feeling was.
I told myself that I was being dramatic. Just like I told myself at fourteen, when a boy I trusted smiled and whispered promises that turned to pain. I told myself I was overreacting. That I was being sensitive. That if I didn't say no, it wasn't really happening
It got worse. When Lynn hit puberty, he didn't even try to hide it. He'd brag to his friends about how my sisters were all so pretty, about how young they were, about how he'd "married well."
"If your sister ever dies, I'm marrying you next," he'd joke to Lynn. I would laugh. Because I didn't know what else to do.
But it was never a joke.
He would sing a disgusting, explicit song to her in the car, his voice low, dancing on the steering wheel, his eyes watching her reaction. She didn't know how to tell him to stop. She didn't know how to say no. She was just a kid. A good girl. A polite girl.
Lynn told me later she thought it was just how adults talked. That if she was uncomfortable, it was her fault. Hearing those words from her— hearing my baby sister explain away his disgusting jokes —was like a knife to the gut.
But I knew. I knew because I had been that girl. I knew what it was to freeze. To hope it wasn't real. To pretend it didn't hurt.
But what could I say? That my husband was a predator? That I let him be around my sisters, even when his smile twisted like a knife? I didn't even want to believe it myself.
I laughed. Because that's what I was supposed to do. Because laughing was easier than screaming. Because if I screamed, I might never stop.
But it was never a joke. Not with him. Not with a man who saw women as trophies, who saw girls as prizes. Not with a man who twisted love into a weapon, who twisted my family into a fantasy.I should have screamed. I should have run. But I didn't. Because I didn't know how. Because I didn't know I could.