Child sexual abuse: On a love story

Writing a paper, I am plugged in, listening to Taylor Swift's "Love Story".

Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone.

I love you, and that's all I really know.

I talked to your dad - go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes".

Pinpricks of tears as I think about my father back home. His cancer has returned.

His gentle smile. My wallflower.

When I was reading and memorising scripture as a child, he would linger at the door to my bedroom, quietly proud.

In high school, he printed out my T-shirt designs and made the boys at the club wear them.

When I wanted to live on my own in my early 20s, he reasoned with my furious mother: Let her be. Just let her be.

Always there, for me. Hovering somewhere in the background.

He saw my pain when in my late 20s, I separated from my partner of six years. He was watching me carefully, ready to catch me. I tried to be brave. For him, for us.

How I long for my own princess story: to be swept off by that proverbial knight on a white horse. Pick out that white dress.

White. White.

Foolish, foolish dreams.

That song again:

Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone.

I keep waiting for you but you never come.

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think.

How are you, Papa? I am fine, he would reply. I am fine.

But I'm not, Papa. I'm not.

I miss you.

Read part 18 here.

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Read part 15 here.

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Read part 12 here.

Read part 11 here.

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Read part nine here.

Read part eight here.

Read part seven here.

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Read part three here.

Read part two here.

Read part one here.