When I wake up crying in the night, Maggie comforts me. She holds my hand while I fall asleep. We live in a small house across from a park. I watch the children riding on the swings, the little girls climbing into the sky. I see a psychologist three times a week. I’m out of school, on independent study. My uncle is in jail. He’s going to prison. I never have to see him again. He writes me letters that I won’t read, telling me he’s sorry and begging forgiveness. He believes that he didn’t really hurt me. Maggie says: “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have thought you were crazy.” I tell her that I wish she had told me too. I understand why she didn’t. She was little; she told Papa that Uncle Toddy tickled her. Oh, he’s just playing, Papa said. But Uncle Toddy never bothered her again. She’d always assumed that the problem was solved. I guess Papa did too. I was ashamed to tell anyone what he was doing to me. I thought I must be very bad to make such bad things happen.
