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  • Once when we were happy and living in our perfect house and playing with the slippy slide and making swings over the river and catching frogs in the long grass I unexpectedly got very angry.

    And it was because you were the age I was when the babysitter did that thing to me.

    (I was asleep and suddenly there he was in the room. I woke up, all fear.

    Then there was his hand up inside the blankets, and the sheets, and your nightie. I mean, my nightie. Feeling. Exploring. And you (me) pretending to be asleep. And then pretending to be waking up, to make him go away.)

    If it had been you, what would I have done?

    "But you're not hurt, are you?" my mother said to me.

    No, not hurt exactly. Terrified, ashamed, humiliated merely. But one promiscuous adolescence, one failed marriage and three periods of depression later, I do wonder.
    If I was hurt.
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