I remember it well. It was my daughter’s 11th birthday. We had a big pool party at their house and everything was seemingly alright. My dad slept the whole day as he was not feeling well. He was recently diagnosed with cancer. My niece went inside the house to change into her swimming costume. My father woke up and he was peeping at her through the door and my mom caught him.
All hell broke loose.

She had covered for him one day too many, believed him long enough. She had allowed him to get away with ruining my nieces’ lives and manipulating our entire family for far too long. She phoned the police and told them everything. One thing I also remember with great sadness about that day, was that my father never once pleaded for forgiveness or even tried to stop my mom from making that call. He just sat there, cold. Only then did it dawn on me that my father never really cared about us. At all. He was on his own mission of destruction. He had one goal… taking us all to hell with him.

Many times we had cried and begged him to stop. He never begged. Even at that point with everything breaking inside of me, I still remember silently begging him to do something or say something. We threatened him with the police many times before but they were finally there.

They were reading him his rights and handcuffing him. He allowed them to escort him to the police van in front of his grandkids, their friends, family members, neighbours and I. This day was edged in my mind and for this I’ll never forgive him. He could have prevented all of this. He chose not to. I held my pose but did not cry. I felt I had no right to. He was a bad man and deserved what was coming to him.

The road was not easy.

In the days that followed, it had become clear that my family was drowning. My two brothers chose their own way of dealing with everything. They’d found solace in alcohol and drugs. My mother turned into this zombie. My niece was relieved. She had started counselling and we promised her that regardless of what happens, it was never her fault and that we would be there for her if she wanted us to be. She never once blamed us and that made me feel even worse.

Police and social workers assigned to this case came to our house often to take statements. We were all scared. Not sure what to expect. It felt as though someone had died and we were planning a funeral. A sombre atmosphere filled the air. Friends and neighbours came by, curious, gossiping, pretending to care and know what we were going through. But no one truly understood. We had to pretend that we were all fine but we were not. Our father was charged with molestation and everyone knew it. A family in ruins is all that remained.

At night I waited for everyone to go to sleep and I would just cry. I’d cry about everything that has ever happened and that led to that day. I cried for my nieces, my sister-in-law, my mother, my brothers and for myself. Mostly I cried for my father. If only he listened, if only he continued with his counselling perhaps, who knows?

All this would have been just a very bad dream but no, he had forced my mother’s hand and now at age 64, was locked up in prison. This was unbearable. I’d imagine he was sharing a cell with other criminals and I was scared that they would hurt him. Even after everything he had done, I did not want that. The next morning I’d wake up puffy eyed and be angry with myself all over again because I could still not understand why I loved my father so much. Even in the aftermath of everything that has happened and chaos reigning, I was still worried about him.

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Tell us what you think: Should the narrator hate her dad for what he did? Do you think he will get help in prison?