When I was a little kid, or a young teenager, I believed that I would take this secret to the grave. I believed them, when they said that this is the kind of thing that you accept and move on. I believed that I would just have to suppress everything – my pain, my suffering, my anxiety, my confusion, and pretend that everything was happy and merry.

I also believed, as a child, that he wouldn’t love me the same. I also believed that he would ask uncomfortable questions to make sure that I was not on the wrong (I believed I was, for many many years, and blamed myself for my suffering. It was only after reading about child sexual abuse that I realised that I wasn’t, and was only convinced because of my therapist). I believed the way he looked at me – with love and pride, would change, because I was dirty now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs. I’m sorry you suffered and I’m proud of you for speaking up about this. Tell me when you’re ready, and we’ll handle this how you want it to be handled.”

Those were the words that my father chose after he’d recovered from the shock and fully grasped what I had just told him.

He understood what his adult daughter was telling him and he stood by the child that suffered.