As I sat in line at the drive thru, I noticed what seemed to be a father, walking through the parking lot with his adult son. They were walking at a normal pace, but very close to each other. In fact, the father had his arm around his son. As they got closer, I realized the son was blind. I watched as the father walked his son through the parking lot and around to their car. He slid open the door of the minivan, then helped his son climb in. I watched as the man buckled his son’s seatbelt. It was a beautiful display of love.
“No more ice-cream runs,” I said to my kids, Grace, Faith, and Kennedy. I wasn’t trying to be mean; it was just the responsible thing to do. I had to protect my new truck from their inevitable spills. Our last car was so old, it hadn’t mattered as much; I’d happily risked it for the sake of family activities. But the likelihood of a messy accident meant more now.
I was molested by a trusted family member. I was in third grade and completely innocent. From that time until I was 31, in big ways that I resented and tiny ways that I didn’t even realize, that afternoon dominated my life, my choices, my internal freedom.
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