Wednesdays

All the other kids at my church’s daycare would go to the gymnasium. My preschool teacher would walk me down to the main chapel room. Drop me off. Leave me with him.

He wore red robes with green trim. He was a singer in the church choir, I later found out, but as a kid, seeing those robes meant one thing—preacher. He could tell that I thought he was a priest or a pastor, and he’d often use this false authority against me. He was a man of God, same as the other religious men we served.

He tried to be nice at first, he really did. But he liked being mean too much. To him, I was stupid, bad, dumb. I couldn’t do anything right. My entire purpose on earth was pleasing him and him alone. I needed to be hit, kicked, and touched by him. Of all the men I served, he was the meanest. He was the one who made it hurt the most.

“I love you, little one,” he’d tell me with a slimy grin.

“I hate you,” he meant.

As the weeks went by, I knew better than to ask him to stop. I’d just lay there quietly and hope he wouldn’t hit me.