My mind came unraveled when Sebastian told me his secret.
"Mom," he said, tears flowing down his still-boyish 16-year old face.
The dread rose up in my stomach before he spoke another word.
"I was molested," and I fell to my knees and rocked back and forth, back and forth.
"I'm so sorry," he sobbed.
His "I'm so sorry" will echo in my nightmares for eternity. That's why sometimes I hope there isn't an afterlife. I want my head to go quiet.
He was six when it started. He gave me details and they are now a black hole that I can't enter or I will get sucked in forever.
My mind unraveled, bit by bit. I lost my job. I lost my nerve. I lost my belief in the goodness of the world. I lost my husband. How could he have let his niece do this, to our youngest child?
And I lost my self.
Sebastian has healed. He is strong and brave and kind and in college and making good grades.
But I am lost. I was his mother, his protector, and I failed him.
I took up knitting hoping that maybe as I stitched the strands of yarn together into something whole, I could knit myself whole again.
I hate the words, "I'm sorry."