I'll Never Call Him Dad Again

Thursday, 5th November 2020

My body is stiff. My back still hurts. My brothers have gone off to the dump. Today we leave, and there's still a lot to do before catching the train and taking Mum away with us.
        My friend Anne calls to ask how I'm doing. She tells me not to wait any longer before consulting a psychologist and recommends one who specialises in dealing with trauma. I step out onto the patio and call the number she gave me.
        I recount to the psychologist everything that my father did to my mother—the drugs, the rapes, the lies, the manipulation. Only afterwards do I mention the photos of me.
        There is silence at the other end of the line. As I recount the obsessive anxiety that has gripped me for the past three days, I can't ignore the inconceivable damage done to me.
        Before she lets me go, the psychologist tells me how much she costs, which is way beyond what I can afford. I remain sitting beneath the mulberry tree, the phone dead in my hand, long after the call is over. I can't get up.
        I hear the gate open as my brothers return from their final trip to the dump. Florian comes over to me.
        A flood of tears drowns my face.
        'I think he drugged me. The way I'm sleeping in those photos—it's not natural. There's too much light—it would have woken me up. And I never sleep dressed like that, or in such a position. What else could account for the fact that the pose is identical on the two separate occasions? Then there's the underwear—it's identical too. Two photos taken in two different places at different times and yet so much matches. What other explanation can there be?'
        Florian realises I'm having a panic attack. My psychological defence mechanism has gone off the rails. My brothers pick me up, carry me into the kitchen and put me in the recovery position, lying on my side on the tiled floor. I'm trembling and soaked in sweat. My mother watches, fear in her eyes. Florian is talking to me, but I can't hear him. I can't see straight either. Then, suddenly, the lights and sound cut out.
        When I come to, there are firemen present. They take my blood pressure and give me some sugar water. One of them, a young woman with brown hair, speaks to me in a low, calm voice. I beg her to help me. I have only one thought: to flee as far as I can.
        I manage to sit up for a few minutes. I hear talk about administering a sedative, which would mean taking me to the A and E in Carpentras.
        David intervenes. If the firemen take me away in their ambulance, I'll never be able to leave with my brother and mother that evening. Since the thought of another day stuck in the house is intolerable, we tell them I'll go see a GP instead. Forty-five minutes later, my brothers help me into the office of the village doctor. He gives me a tiny pill and I instantly feel weightless. We return to the house, now just an empty shell. It's time to go. When we close the door behind us, my mother's face is clenched. She can walk out, but what happened here will stay with her forever.

Do you remember the party we held when you both reached 50, back in the house we all shared then—your children, your friends, the sumptuous food from the caterer, the superb wine, a soundtrack with all your favourites, the dancing that went on long into the night, you and Mum inseparable?
        You made a speech, thanking her graciously for all the happy years, calling her 'my one, my all' and ending with:
        'Thank you, life, for giving me all this.'

        When evening comes, we're standing on the platform in the train station in Avignon.
        Thanks to Paul, everything is ready when I bring Mum home with me. He's even added a few nice touches—a bouquet of flowers in the guest bedroom and a drawing Tom made especially for her, prominently displayed on the bookshelves.
        Finally, some good news: Paul says he has found the ideal psychologist for Mum. He's made an appointment for next Saturday.
        It looks as if I might at last manage more than two hours' sleep tonight.

© Excerpted from I'll Never Call Him Dad Again: Turning Our Family Trauma of Sexual Assault and Chemical Submission into a Collective Fight © 2025 by Caroline Darian. Published by Sourcebooks LLC. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.