Believe your kids.

I (21F) grew up with my grandma, a loving woman who adored me. When I was 7, something traumatic happened while I was with my “father.” As a child, I didn’t understand it and just carried on, though it caused major anxiety.

It took me 12 years to tell my mother. Her response? “If you never said anything, it’s your problem. I’m making lunch for your brother. Are you hungry?” She wasn’t being cruel—she’s emotionally immature and didn’t know how to handle it.

The next day, my amazing boyfriend (who I’m still with years later) showed up at my doorstep, whit a plushie and McDonald’s to comfort me. Months later, I learned my grandma experienced something similar at 5. Her mother, my great-grandmother, confronted the monster, beat them up, and made sure everyone knew what they’d done. (It was the 1950’s.)

That story made me realize: when I told my mom, I didn’t want revenge, gifts, or attention. I just wanted a hug.

If you’re reading this, I’m not looking for validation or sympathy, just a reminder to believe your children. A hug can go a long way. Thank you for reading.