At My Purple Heart Ceremony, My Stepmother Swung a Folding Chair Into My Arm—Then My Father Looked Down Instead of Protecting Me

I have needed help.

I have needed therapy.

I have forgiven some people.

Not others.

Whole person.

That is much more comfortable than living as either Gertrude’s villain or the internet’s hero.

My father understands that better now too.

One evening, years after the assault, he came to my apartment for dinner.