Believing

She was three years old. He was a 15 year old neighbor who spent a lot of time in our home. We had no reason not to trust him. His name was Pete.

I was washing her hair one Sunday morning in 1984. She told me what had happened. I was livid. I called my 8 year old son in and asked him if he knew anything. “No,” he said, “but I believe her.”

I called a friend in law enforcement and he told me to call the police. He said that children this young don’t lie about this sort of thing. I called the police and they sent an officer to our home. Two more officers cane out. My daughter described the event. The officer asked me if I really wanted to pursue this, given it “was so minor,” and potentially ruin this young man’s life. I said I wasn’t concerned about his life; my concern was my daughter. If he tried this with my baby girl, who would be next?

They talked to his mother. She was livid. She blamed my daughter. Seriously? A 3 year old? She blamed my family. She vilified us throughout the neighborhood. It was brutal.

We moved shortly thereafter, not because of this. We had built a home in another area. We would have a yard and a lake. We would not longer live around the corner from a predator.

I hope he got counseling. I hope he didn’t attempt to victimize another baby. I thanked God my baby girl knew it was wrong and told me.

It takes courage to come forward.