Prior to my finding out what had happened and unknown to me, a friend from the past had called my bishop two weeks earlier. Phil and I grew up in the same state, met in college and married. During the first three years of our marriage, we had moved to out of state while he attended graduate school. After three years in graduate school, he was finished with his class work and we moved back “home”, with his doctoral degree almost completed. While living out of state, we became good friends with a young couple that had two children just slightly older than ours. They were wonderful friends. While I stayed at home for a short time without him, Phil had to return to the university to work on his final paper. While he was there he was invited to stay with our good friends. During his stay, Phil abused their oldest child. After Phil had returned home, their younger child reported to our friends that Phil had touched her sibling inappropriately. Our friend did some digging to find out who our ecclesiastical leader was in our home state, and called our religious leader to report to him what Phil had done. Without my knowledge, our leader called Phil in and asked him what had happened. Phil told a partial truth and then lied, telling the minister that he had had barely touched the boy but had never done anything like this before, that he was very sorry and wouldn’t ever do it again. The minister wisely did not believe Phil’s story and encouraged him to confess and get help, and then waited a few days to see what Phil would choose to do. That morning when Phil left the house early, he went straight to the police station and turned himself in. That’s when I got the call from the officer.
I don’t remember many more details about the day. I remember my in-laws coming to my home to take the children with them for the afternoon. I’m sure that was difficult for them because they had just found out that their son was a sexual perpetrator and had abused their grandchildren, but they wanted to help and took the children for a while. I remember my mother and father coming to my home, packing up some clothes for me and the children, then taking me to their home. I couldn’t rest, couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything. That wasn’t like me – I loved mothering and being active, and now all I could do was to sit and cry, uncontrollable tears of sadness and pain.
I call this day “my hell day”, for that’s what it was to me. The light I had felt in my life was now shrouded behind clouds and darkening as if at the end of a day. My mind couldn’t imagine the actual place of hell being any worse than this.
My parents quietly passed the word along to my siblings. It would have been their unfortunate task now to call my siblings and report the news, with the possibility that their children may have been involved, too. After speaking with my siblings, my mother told me that all of my siblings would be coming over to see me. I panicked – they were coming. They were coming over to see me – how could I look them in the face? My husband may have sexually abused their children, too. How could I ever face them again? How would our family ever be the same? They may hate me for the rest of my life, and I wouldn’t blame them if they did. But all of them came, extending love and kindness to me and I couldn’t believe it. How could they possibly still love and care for me? I was so embarrassed to see them, to be around them. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. As they came to see me one by one, each of them hugged me, expressed their love for me and sat with me and cried. Those were such tender times, and I cherished the outpouring of love and empathy from those family members. I had sisters and brothers, cousins and friends that came to be with me. My parents were angels at my side and never left me.
When I awoke the following morning, the stark reality of what had happened just yesterday hit me. I had been asleep in a restful world and now I had woken up to a nightmare. Mornings would be like this for a long time. I would seek for sleep to escape the pain, then I would wake up and the nightmare would begin again.
My parents took care of my children in my mental absence. My children had always been happy to go to grandma and grandpa’s house, so for them there was stability in this home. They loved being there, and it gave me a chance to rest. As a grandparent now myself, I can’t imagine how hard this period of time must have been for my parents. They held me together, and they held these two precious children together, too.