Child Abuse Story From Genie
(Chicago, Illinois, USA)
What I Am Like
When I was a little girl I found my mother's childhood photo album. What I expected to be happy pictures of my mother on the shoulders of her father turned a corner. What I saw were pictures of my mother with bruises on her legs and arms. I didn't expect to see that at all.
That night I searched through my mother's old boxes. I found picture after picture of her with bruises. I'd always known my grandfather was scum, but my idea of scum and the truth were two very different things. I'd thought that scum meant my grandfather hadn't given my mom something she wanted; it was that night I found out otherwise.
"Tweetie," I'd heard my own father call moments after. I remember shuddering at the thought of a father hurting their own child. My father had been calling me Tweetie since I was five cause it rhymed with my name "Genie" and I'd nursed a sick bird.
"Coming!" I stuffed the album and my mother's childhood journal in my backpack and prayed he wouldn't tell me to put it away.
Later that night I sat in my bed with the journal in my hand. It held nothing but fairytales and wishes. Then it stopped and there was nothing for three years. It's then things got heated as I read the loopy handwriting of my mother talk about her attempted suicide.
The next morning I told my mother I knew, while she cut a few apples. She stopped and stared up at me. "I'm sorry," was all she said. I slipped off my stool and engulfed her in a hug.
Little did I know she wasn't apologizing for that, but for the fact that my uncle was coming, the man that had sexually abused me as a small child.
Two days later I sat in my bed with tears in my eyes as I watched the man that was the son of my horrid grandfather leave the room.
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