Because that’s the cruelest part of all this. It wasn’t physical. It wasn’t something I could point to and say, “This is what happened.” But it changed everything. It rewired how I see myself, how I see men, how I understand love. The man who once protected me from the world… became the very thing he was supposed to protect me from. And that realization doesn’t just hurt—it lingers. It follows me into every interaction, every relationship, every quiet moment where I’m left alone with my thoughts.
And just when I thought I had adjusted to that reality—just when I thought I understood the boundaries of the damage—something else broke inside me. One comment. One sentence. From my grandfather. A man I trusted. A man who had always been kind. He said something about my body—about my chest—and laughed it off like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. Because in that moment, something inside me snapped into place with terrifying clarity.
It’s not just him.
It never was.
And that’s when the truth hit me harder than anything else ever had—I didn’t just lose my father… I lost the idea that I was ever safe to begin with.
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