Mixed
Certain childhood memories I kept to myself. We were probably both 4-5 years old. I remember her name to this day - Jenny. She was blonde. I think she was a neighbor. There were two other children there and they were doing the same thing. For years, I was ashamed because I knew I did something that I shouldn’t do. It was my fault and my sick curiosity - at least that’s what I believed for nearly 35 years. Then one day, my world was flipped upside down. I was shocked to hear what had happened to our four year old son. I was again reminded of my own childhood memories. Certainly, 4-5 year olds don’t do such things - at least on their own initiative. It was this thought which finally prompted me - at the age of forty-one - to share my buried memories with my parents. “We’re so sorry to hear that happened to you.” Why did their response feel so understated and insincere? Certainly, my memory was news to them - but in some instinctive way, it felt like they already knew. A lat