Earlier this year, I wrote an article for Redbook in the US. I don’t know if I am allowed to post the whole thing on my blog now, but this is the beginning, with a link to the site on which the article is published….
A few months after we were married, my husband told me he had a terrible secret. If I’d known this secret, he claimed, I might not have agreed to marry him.
We were in South Wales, settled into a bed and breakfast among the great peaks of the Brecon Beacons, the bed so narrow it barely contained us. I’d never loved anyone as fiercely as I loved my husband — whatever the secret, it could not alter this fact.
He could barely bring himself to tell me; the shame was so deep he struggled with each syllable. I waited for the awful confession, until at last he explained that when he was a child, he was sexually abused by one of the teachers at his prep school. He’d been eleven years old when it began.
Did he really think such a fact could change anything between us? Why on earth was he ashamed when he’d only been a boy? We talked about it, not all night. And among the many things that were said that night was that it was a very odd coincidence, if it were a coincidence at all, that I had been sexually abused as child, too, though not so young as he.
“And that doesn’t bother you?” he said.
“It bothered me at the time,” I said. “Not now.”
He asked me how I wore it so lightly. I didn’t know. We’d just had the first of many discussions about what would turn out to be the biggest ordeal of my husband’s life, but I didn’t know that then. I told him it was all a long time ago.
“Does that matter?” he said. “Don’t you ever want to kill the guy?”
“Don’t you want to see him in prison?”
“Did you want this thing that happened?”
“No,” I said. “Go to sleep.”
A dozen years later, my husband, Alastair, was a complainant in a Crown Court case against his former prep school teacher and won his case against the man who abused him. He served a short sentence, that was all. A year later he was free….Continued here