A Rapist’s Daughter


My dad raped my mom. He got her pregnant so they’d have to marry. It was 1965 and my grandmother wanted to keep him out of Vietnam. She colluded with him or told him to commit this act. It worked. My mom became pregnant, so she and my dad married in December. Jill was born the following July. My sister and I are rapist’s daughters.

I know this because my mom told me when I was a teenager. I don’t remember my exact age. I don’t remember my reaction. I hope I was outraged and showed proper sympathy and concern for her. A part of me was angry with her. My dad abused my sister and me. I’d lived in fear of him my whole life. Still, I loved him and sought his love and attention. On some primitive level I was jealous that he beat Jill. He hit me, but ignored and neglected me more. Beating her showed he was scared of her and what she was capable of. He couldn’t be bothered with me. And so started the pattern of loving and wanting the love of unavailable men.

I was mad at my mom for adding to my burden of being an abuser’s daughter. Now I was a rapist’s daughter. And I still loved him. I do love him.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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