It feels like it never happened to me. Like the memory is someone else's, and I was a bystander forced to watch how he touched them. It isn't fair how easily he got away with it, how life is the exact same as before although I'm the one who decided to let it go, so it's my fault that it's normal now. I tend to forget it happened until I'm laying in bed at night, until someone else shares their story, until someone asks about him. I hate when they ask how things are now. Why do they remind me? I told my Grandma shortly after it happened. She swore she wouldn't tell anyone, and she didn't. She did ask me if I was in love with him, my own step father. I don't know why she did this; I remember trying not to flip out on her in the middle of the store. When the story did come out people believed me but still kept doubting parts of it. I know how long it lasted I was the one who sat through every minute of it.