What happened in the bathroom that day?

I’ve never been close to my dad’s side of the family but I know they love me and I love them too. Especially my grandmother, my dad’s mother. As old as I am, I still kiss her on the lips, make her favourite cup of black tea and tuck myself in the same sheets she tucks herself in.

She raised my dad, the hardest working man I’ve ever been close with. She also raised my aunt, the kindest soul I’ve ever encountered. My dad’s two brothers are the ones I’m not so close with. The one used to adore me when I was kid but I grew and I guess he grew out of it. With the other I almost have close to nothing but a lot to say but I know he’s guilty. I can see it in his eyes.

He’s not a bad person, merely just lost and not in control. I don’t exactly know what his problem is although everyone else seems to know but he could’ve been somebody, he could’ve been better.

I don’t think what happened to me was traumatic, I don’t see how it affected my life but I kind of think it did. I just don’t know, I don’t understand; I want to know, I want to understand and so I just stare at him sometimes, wondering, thinking, analysing.

This one time I asked him. It wasn’t a thing of I grew the guts to or I was no longer scared to, it was just a thing of being tired of being curious. Being tired of wondering, thinking, analysing. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. To him, that day doesn’t exist. I don’t remember it clearly but I know it happened.

Thats why that toilet feels weird, that’s why I hate using it. If he raped me, I think there would have been signs. I would have felt something tear apart and never forget the pain but he didn’t. I know he didn’t.

He hides his guilt well sometimes, when I let the memory of that day go. He doesn’t feel like an uncle, he doesn’t feel like my dad’s brother. He feels like someone who is sorry. Someone who wants to let the past be the past.

How can I fully know what happened that day? Why he called me in that bathroom, why there was this heavy feeling telling me to not go and why on earth I don’t remember.

How do I remember being called inside but not remember what actually happened inside? He was standing by the basin, calling out my name. It was almost like no one else heard him. Just me standing there with something heavy telling me to not go but I did and maybe I am being affected.

Someone told me that everything in this world is spiritual. That life itself is a spiritual warfare. Maybe that’s why I have all of this anxiety, this depression. Maybe what happened in the bathroom that day is a huge part of my life. Maybe that’s why sometimes I feel like God answers my prayers sooner than I expect.

Maybe that’s why sometimes I feel like I’m protected more than I could ever know (despite my fear)

because of what happened in the bathroom that day.

I hope his guilt grows a voice. I hope one day he sits me down and finally becomes the uncle he never was.

I know he regrets it. I know he would go back and do everything in his power to stop it. I just want to know, I need to know.

I’m tired of the staring, wondering, thinking, analysing.

I need to know what happened in the bathroom that day.