As my dad stood up from the sofa, he let out a long yawn and stretched his arms. ‘I’m going upstairs for a nap,’ he told my mum. It was 1971 and I was five. Sitting on the living room floor, quietly reading, I knew what was coming next. ‘I’ll take Susan with me,’ he said, his eyes fixed on me. As he dragged me by the hand, I was too terrified to protest. My father, Robert Henderson, had a quick temper and I knew better than to argue with him. Instead, I let him climb on top of me in bed, too scared to cry and tell him that he was hurting me.
‘You know I love you, Susan,’ he slurred, the smell of alcohol on his breath.
Dad worked as a high-profile defence barrister in Edinburgh and had a brilliant reputation in the Scottish legal system.
He was a well-respected man and, to the outside world, he was a loving family man too. We lived in a beautiful house in a prestigious area, but our home was far from a happy one.
SICK PARTIES
Dad had started abusing me when I was just three, and over the years it had only got worse.
When I was four, he’d invited a few of his work friends over for an alcohol-fuelled party. ‘Sit on his knee,' Dad had ordered me, gesturing to one of his friends. I did as I was told and squirmed as Dad’s friend pushed his hand under my skirt. I choked back the tears as they both laughed.
PASSED AROUND
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة May 08, 2023 من WOMAN'S OWN.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
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هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة May 08, 2023 من WOMAN'S OWN.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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