B.Løvetann

The Last Summer I Was Truly Myself

We moved back to the house near my grandparents. It was a wonderful time for us kids. But once again, I became the «new kid» at school, forced to adapt to a completely new environment and new faces all over again.

That summer marked a total turning point for me. I suddenly learned the art of taking care of myself—brushing my teeth every day, showering daily, and styling my hair. I started forming my own opinions on clothes, developed a sense of style, and began finding my own voice. In short, I was hurtling full speed into puberty.

After moving around so many times, you become an expert at blending in. This time, I did it more consciously. You get incredibly good at reading people and observing their behavior—and honestly, that was a skill I had already been forced to master.

Sixth grade actually went quite well. I spent time with girlfriends and played a lot of soccer with the boys. I found my first best friend, experienced my first crush, and had a circle of friends I spent hours with. I wasn’t the most popular girl, but for the very first time in my life, I felt accepted.

I even found a second home. The neighbors knew exactly what things were like at my house, so their door was always open to me. And best of all: I had started regular visitation with my dad.

Shadows at Home

But hitting puberty and having my own opinions sparked constant friction. The woman who gave birth to me and I clashed daily, frequently leaving me in tears. Her ideas of «good parenting» were bizarre, to say the least. For instance, smoking—she bought me cigarettes when I was only twelve. The physical violence never stopped, but now she had discovered psychological abuse as well.

Summer arrived, filled with swimming and laughter. The year was 1997. Little did I know that this would be the very last summer I would ever get to be entirely myself.

The Night in 1997

I had just turned thirteen. I joined my dad and Mom (my dad’s partner, whom I’ll refer to as Mom from here on out) for a visit to his sister’s place. The adults were heading out to a birthday party for her boyfriend’s mother. While they were away, Mom, Dad, and I stayed behind to babysit their daughter—my little cousin. My grandparents were there too, but they were celebrating with my aunt.

We put my cousin to sleep, and eventually, we turned in too. Mom and Dad slept downstairs in the living room, while I lay on a mattress in my cousin’s bedroom. My aunt’s bedroom was right next door, wall-to-wall, and my grandparents were just across the hall.

They came home in the early hours of the morning. My grandparents had gone to bed; my aunt had gone to bed. I woke up to him—my aunt’s boyfriend—in the room, playing with his daughter. He laid her back down, left the room to go to my aunt, but then he came back.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I woke up to him stroking my back. It felt incredibly invasive and bizarre. When he stepped out again, I scrambled to put a top on—I had only been sleeping in my underwear.

I must have fallen asleep again. The next time he entered the room, he slid his hands under my top and began touching my breasts.

I froze completely. An icy chill surged through my entire body. I went pale, paralyzed by terror, as if time itself had stopped. My soul died. I was nothing but an empty shell.

He slid his hand down into my underwear. At first, I couldn’t move; I was completely rigid with fear. But as he tried to force himself inside me, something snapped. I woke up to the reality of what was happening, grabbed his hand, and violently shoved it away. I think I startled him. I was filled with pure rage. Everything right after that is a blur.

«This is Your Fault, Too!»

He asked if I wanted something to drink. I said yes, desperate to get him away from me. He went downstairs, and I threw my pants on. When he returned with a glass of juice, he looked at me and said:

«This is your fault, too!»

I shot back, «My fault? I was asleep!»

He went out to my aunt’s room but came right back—this time, wearing nothing but his underwear. I sat there, curled into a ball, shaking in deep shock, unable to comprehend what was happening. I was nauseous, sweating, and shivering all at once. He grabbed my hand, trying to pull it toward his body. I yanked it back with everything I had.

Then he said, «You can’t tell anyone about this.»

I looked at him and said, «I won’t say a word. But if I ever see or hear you do anything like that to your daughter, I will report you to the police immediately.»

He looked at me and replied, «I don’t do things like that to my own.»

He finally went into my aunt’s room to sleep. I didn’t dare close my eyes again. I waited in the dark until the house was entirely silent. Eventually, I fell asleep. With all my clothes on.

The Certainty

The next morning felt so surreal. I couldn’t tell if what had happened was a horrific nightmare or reality. I mentioned to the others that he had been in the room during the night, but I didn’t dare speak the truth of what he had done. I felt sick to my stomach, hollow, and dirty. I barely uttered a word during breakfast, just sitting on the far side of the living room.

Eventually, the fog cleared, and I realized it hadn’t been a dream. It actually happened. A wave of ice crashed through me at the sheer certainty of it.

When it was time to leave, I forced myself to walk over to him. My stomach churned with pure revulsion. I quietly muttered, «Goodbye.» He looked at me, his voice low, and said, «Goodbye.»

This was a far cry from how I had imagined starting middle school. The trauma left instant, deep scars; I would lock up and go completely cold if the woman who gave birth to me so much as stroked my back.

The Path to the Police

At a school party a month after the semester started, a boy in my class happened to repeat the exact same words «he» had used that night. I froze instantly. Tears flooded my eyes, and I had to escape. I ran out and sat a good distance away, entirely alone for a very long time.

A boy came over and asked if I was okay. I couldn’t find the words to tell him, so I asked him to fetch my friend. She came running. I knew then that I had to tell someone. I couldn’t carry this burden alone anymore.

First, I called a youth helpline and spoke to a counselor about what had happened. After that call, I gathered every ounce of courage I had, sat down, and confessed everything to the woman who gave birth to me.

In January, just a few months later, I walked into the police station. Completely alone. To tell them my story.

And that was the beginning of a living hell.

To be continued…