Trigger warning

sexual abuse, topic my very first Short Story written

Grandpa

My father worshiped the ground he walked on, while I, on the other hand, loathed him. I remember when it all started. I was twelve. I felt alone in a house full of people where he chose me for the touching and the looks. I would be by myself washing dishes or doing homework when Grandpa would come over to check on us. He always strived to get way too close. When I finally said, "No," he would leave with his head bent down in shame. I soon started saying no really fast to make him leave. What an unnatural act in a world of so-called close-knit family. I felt dirty and betrayed, but what's a kid to do?

He lived only two doors down. We children didn't think we needed supervision. Living way out in the country, what trouble could we get into? Falling into the creek was not a big grounding issue. Besides, Wayne was a teenager and the youngest of the bunch was nearly eleven. How was I to tell Mama and Daddy that we were big enough to look after ourselves? When the subject did come up, it was decided our grandparents would be there if anything happened. I couldn't make myself bring it up again because in those days you did what your elders said. You didn't talk back.

I became a recluse in my room. Mama worried because I didn't have friends stay over like the other kids. I heard her talking to Dad one night. My room was directly on the other side of the thin living room wall.

"Keith, Diana hardly smiles anymore except when you’re home. Should we put her in a special program or something?'"

"All girls go through strange moods at that age. Didn't you?"

"Yes, I guess I did," Mama answered.

"I'm sure in time she will snap out of it. Then all we'll have to worry about is how to beat the boys off!" Daddy laughed.

In the other room I smiled under the covers. Dad always had a way of making me feel beautiful. He was my hero and would never let anything hurt his “Diny” girl. While Daddy was home, I was safe. He said over and over how I would always be his little girl. If I was too old to sit on Daddy's lap, I knew I would still be his "Diny" even at age 80.

Dad was driving his truck, and Mom was at church. If we had schoolwork to do, we had to stay home to finish it. And Grandpa made his little visits. I stopped bringing homework home and my schoolwork suffered. It was years later when Grandpa was very sick that I approached some of my cousins about the subject. As I broached this sensitive matter, I was saddened to discover I wasn't the only one. We talked and cried and were glad that Grandpa could not visit anymore, but no one ever told the secret. It was the one shame still hidden in the family closet.

The day of Grandpa's funeral came. I felt obliged to be there. I was now an adult and had told my mother of the past. Grandpa's wake was the furthest thing from my mind. I told myself I loved my Grandmother and I would attend for her.

I bent down and hugged the frail old woman whose lap I once was rocked in. She pulled me close and wouldn't let go.

"Diny, sit with me awhile," she whispered.

Granny pulled all 140-plus pounds of me onto her lap. I was afraid she would break. She held me like she did so many years ago, and I reached up and felt the soft skin under her chin. I was sorry Granny was alone now and said as much. She pulled back the hair from my ear and whispered, "I am too. I am too."

Then a moment I will never forget happened. Granny looked into my eyes with tears I recognized. These were not tears of mourning. I hesitated, then through tears of my own, I tried to say, "It was tough, ah... to come today..."

She interrupted me, and pressed her finger to my lips. "I know, Diny," she whispered. "I really do know."

At that moment as she looked at me, we both started crying all over again. I knew she knew of the secret. How she found out, I am not sure.

In that chair on my granny's lap, I thought of all the wasted years. The time I had spent avoiding family altogether. There were missed reunions and activities I wished I had gotten to share. I would not miss any more. Burying Grandpa would finally bury my secret, I resolved. (It didn’t)

When Grandma hugged me goodbye that day, she said in my ear, "Diny, I am so sorry."

I had always needed to hear those words.

Families have traditions—some good and some not mentioned. We should be more aware and talk more, not so much as family members but as members of the human family.

No matter how much we desire the ability to forgive someone, until we hear, "I am sorry," we are never really ready to start the forgiveness process. I have started. It took years.

Forgiving me was the first step.

Sharing this story was therapy and the second.

The third, I place into the reader's hand.