Me Too, Part 2

When I turned 12, I got curious about my biological father.  It wasn’t the first time, but this time I talked to my mom about it.  She reached out to my biological father’s dad, to see what she could find out.  He told her that my bio father lived in Massachusettes (we were in California), but that he would love to meet me.

For the next several months, my grandfather proceeded to date me.  He took me on dinner dates.  He took me square dancing.  He came to my choir concerts for school.

One day, we had plans for me to visit him at his apartment to go swimming.  My cousin/best friend was coming to visit that afternoon, so I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to disappoint Grandpa.  He picked me up and we drove to his place.  I didn’t really have a bathing suit at the time, so I wore bikini bottoms and a t-shirt to swim in.  I swam around, which was a favorite thing for me, until Grandpa asked if I was ready to go inside.  I was eager to get home to see my cousin/BFF, so I said yes.

We toweled off, and then went inside.  I was sitting on the sofa, and he went in to use the bathroom.  I could hear him peeing, and I realized that he hadn’t closed the bathroom door.  This made my shoulders tense up.  I became very wary.

Grandpa came out of the bathroom and stood in front of me.  I was sitting on the sofa, so it was awkward.  I stood up.  He said, “I love you, J—-.”  I awkwardly told him, “I love you, too, Grandpa.”

Then he wrapped his arms around me and began kissing me down my neck and shoulder, the way a man kisses his lover.  I began trembling and told him I wanted to go home, now.  He took me home, and I sat as far from him in the car as I could get.

When I got home, I told my cousin/bff what had happened.  She agreed that it was creepy.  So I went out to talk to my mom.

I fell into her arms and cried and told her that I didn’t want to see him anymore.  This was the second time in my life that I heard my mother channel the voice of Satan, “Did he hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” I cried, honestly.  I was 12 years old.  I didn’t know if what he’d done was inappropriate, but it felt wrong to me.  My instincts told me to get away and keep away.

I never heard from him again after that.  He died alone in his apartment from carbon monoxide poisoning.  I went to the funeral in hopes of seeing my biological father.  I did see him, but I did not talk to him.  I didn’t know how I would be received, and I didn’t want to cause a disruption.

Many years later, I would connect with my biological father’s sister via telephone.  She told me that she had been molested by her father, and I told her what he had done to me.  She sobbed out an apology.  “I should have warned you,” she wept.