Trigger warning: This post mentions child rape and discusses some of the long-term emotional complications for me.
I was 16. I had a car and a license. I went to my old neighborhood and looked up Marcia, who I hadn’t seen since third grade when I’d accused her father of molesting me . We had been best friends before that, and I knew that telling the truth about her father would end our friendship. Now, years later, I was back on her doorstep, at her house, the scene of the crime, giving her my phone number.
We ended up attending the homecoming dance at my boyfriend’s school a few weeks later together. She went as his friend’s date. We went out to eat at some steakhouse with peanut shells on the floor. I can’t remember what my date said or what I ordered. I can remember Marcia and I standing in the bathroom after the meal, touching up our makeup and talking.
She asked me if I’d made it up, what I’d said about her father. I told her it was true. I wasn’t mad at her. I didn’t yell. If anyone had the right to question me, it was her. But between one word and the next, she believed me. I could see it in her eyes, which looked like a bombed city: utterly desolate.
Somehow, we went on that night – to the dance and then bowling and then out for breakfast. Somehow, we were social and good company. That conversation brought tremendous closure for me, and a sense of validation. I don’t know what it did to her though. And I wonder if she forgives me for telling her.
maybe you should look her up again and see how things are for her. It is entirely possible that the fact she so readily believed you is because she had also suffered abuse at her fathers hands.