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Weeks passed, months passed, years passed with me carrying and heavy burden in my heart scared to let anyone know . I still saw her in my dreams, still I heard her voice of warning me not to hate. But some days I couldn't help it I wanted to grow and teach them a lesson. I tried return to normal, whatever that meant. I wore a mask of strength during the day, only to cry into my pillow each night. And now I was 12 when the world shifted again. After everything that had happened, I thought pain had done its worst. But it hadn't. It came again—this time, quieter, crueler, cloaked in betrayal.
My uncle had moved in with us. My dad was rarely home, always traveling, and my mom—God bless her—was chasing a better life for us through her business. That left me alone. Alone with him.
At first, it was little things: strange touches, lingering stares that made my skin crawl, words that made me uncomfortable. But I was just a child—I didn't yet have the words to explain what felt wrong.
Then one night, it escalated. And it didn't stop.
He stole from me in silence. Again and again. And I stayed silent too—not out of shame, but fear. Fear that no one would believe me. Fear that I'd destroy what little peace my family had left. So I folded into myself. I smiled at school and helped around the house, all while carrying a storm no one could see.
I wanted to scream. To ask, Why me? But each day, I learned how to survive. How to walk with my wounds invisible to the world.
The hardest part wasn't the pain—it was the silence. How he'd laugh with my mom over dinner like he hadn't just taken a piece of me. How no one noticed the change in my eyes. But deep down, something in me began to burn: my life was changed completely ..