This story isn’t about the priest who abused me. It’s about my mother
She was a master archivist of lies, enabling my stepfather’s crimes against me and my siblings. Despite everything, I needed to believe she loved meThe church, though aware of our abuser’s crimes, had kept Father Francis Melfe employed and in our lives throughout our childhoods.At Saint Patrick’s, where he was a priest, we were told to call him Father Melfe. At home, we were to call him dad. Continue reading...
She was a master archivist of lies, enabling my stepfather’s crimes against me and my siblings. Despite everything, I needed to believe she loved me
The church, though aware of our abuser’s crimes, had kept Father Francis Melfe employed and in our lives throughout our childhoods.
At Saint Patrick’s, where he was a priest, we were told to call him Father Melfe. At home, we were to call him dad. Continue reading...
