He’s picking me up tonight, and I wanted them to understand before he arrived.
They were all happy. He’s been over a few times this week. And, he’s even working on his French and has won Martinez over. Henri likes him because he’s tall enough to climb. Eva likes him, because he likes me.
I reassured them that he wouldn’t be trying to replace their father. We also talked about how they felt about their father and I not being married anymore.
Because we’ve lived apart for so long, they’re used to the long stretches of him being gone. Eva is still not speaking to him, and I can’t say I blame her. But I also encouraged her to try talking to him. She said, “You first.”
So, I called Marcel, and all four of us had a civil, somewhat stilted conversation.
What he did was so wrong, but he’s not a monster. He’s just living proof that marriage isn’t for everyone. And despite his failings as a husband, I know he loves his kids. I don’t want them to have hang ups about love or to look at their parents’ less than stellar track record and think that it had any bearing on them. By the time we were done talking, we all felt better.
But I saved the most difficult conversation for the last possible moment.
“Okay, guys, time for bed,” I say, and wait for them to get their grumble out before I shoo them upstairs.
“Eva, can you wait, please? I want to talk to you,” I call after her, and pat the spot next to me on the small sofa.
“Okay,” she bounds back, smiling, because she loves when she gets to hear things her brothers are too little to.
My stomach cramps, as I watch her walk toward me. What would I do if someone hurt her the way I was hurt? I hope that by telling her, she’ll make better choices and understand that silence and secrets don’t do anything but fester and make us sick.
This week has been a watershed. Besides agreeing to go with Stone to his event, I finally told my brothers about the podcast and then about what happened. They were both devastated and so angry at Pops when they heard the role he played in all of it.
But even as I help them navigate their anger, grief, and guilt, them knowing isn’t a burden. In fact, it’s lightened the one I’ve been holding.
If I can use my considerable platform to shed light on the plague of sex trafficking that’s part of Houston’s underbelly, maybe I can do some good.
So, I’ve decided to come out on The Jezebel, to say my name with pride. I want people to understand that anyone can become a victim of it, but that it doesn’t have to ruin your life, And I want my daughter to be the first to know.
I won’t let her listen to the podcast.
It’s for audiences 17+, but I’m also very aware that the girls who are affected are much younger. But at eleven years old and on the cusp of young adulthood, I decided to just give her a very broad overview of what happened.
“So, I want to tell you a story of something that happened when I was nineteen. I promised when you were born that I wouldn’t ever lie to you. That I would protect you with my very life, and I meant it.”
Her light amber eyes grow wide. “Mom, you’re scaring me.”
My heart thuds and my gut knots, but I smile and take her hand. “I don’t ever want you to be afraid. But I also want you to know that fear is normal. If you’re scared, just remember that darkness exists so that we can see the light, okay?” I tell her.
She nods, solemn and brave. My heart swells with love for her. I push my own trepidation to the side and follow my daughter’s lead and let my courage propel me forward.
“When I was nineteen, I was taken by men, who sell human beings and force them to do things against their will. All sorts of things. I’m fine. I was rescued after only a few days. And I’m very, very lucky that I had a family to fall back on.”
Her face has turned ashen and her wide eyes are glassy with tears. “Someone sold you, Mommy?” she asks in a small, high pitched voice made thick by the tears she’s holding back.