Today, I want to share something very personal with you that happened in 2009, in the hopes that you will glean something useful from it.
There I was, driving down the highway for an hour with music blasting and my face soaked with tears. I was crying so hard I could hardly breathe after my mother, Janice, opened up to me as she never had.
When she sat me down at the kitchen table, looking nervous and fidgeting, I knew it was important. She can never sit still when facing something perplexing or challenging.
The previous week, before our serious table talk worked me all up, she had called and told me she wanted to come over after she got back in town from visiting one of my aunts.
I said okay, not thinking anything of it.
When the day came, I had no idea what she would say.
“Well, you know there were a lot of men in and out of my life,” my mother started.
Of course I was aware of that. I had seen the domestic abuse and unfair treatment she suffered. So I wondered why she was going over it again. She knew I had witnessed more than my fair share of drama firsthand growing up in her house.
But then she dropped the real bomb and told me something I had never known. She was molested by one of her older male cousins from ages five to eleven—something she was completely on board with me writing about, by the way.