Myth of Justice

A few summers ago, I was sunbathing with my parents on the bow of their boat. They love anchoring in the bayou. That afternoon, we were talking about how I came across my own case file while working at the Children’s Advocacy Center. I thought we were just making conversation—until my mom whispered something to my dad, and started to cry.

Confused, I asked, “What’s going on?”

Through tears, she said it.

“I lied.”

“Ok … About what?”

She told me the truth.

“There was no conviction. The jury couldn’t bring themselves to send a woman to prison for this. The call came just after we’d cooked a huge lobster dinner to celebrate.”

“I just wanted you to have a happy ending.”

I get it. I really do.

I worked at the CAC for two years. Busted my ass raising money for them during the pandemic. And in that time, I learned a lot about how the legal system investigates childhood sexual abuse.

A Children’s Advocacy Center is built for kids who’ve already been through hell.

Instead of forcing them to bounce between police stations, hospitals, and courtrooms, everything happens in one place. They sit across from a trained forensic interviewer—someone who knows how to ask questions without leading, pressuring, or re-traumatizing. The interview is then recorded and carefully preserved, so the child doesn’t have to repeat their story.

While that’s happening, a team is already in motion: law enforcement, social workers, prosecutors, therapists, sometimes doctors. A multidisciplinary team that meets regularly to make sure nothing falls through the cracks. Many support the caregivers too, helping them navigate a complicated system while emotionally overwhelmed.

Before places like this existed, a child might have to tell their story five, six, seven times. A lot of cases got dropped simply because the adults weren’t talking to each other. The CAC model tries to fix that.

I get it.

I can only imagine the horror of listening to your four-year-old daughter describe the games she played with me. I don’t want to know the guilt and shame you must feel for hiring the newspaper delivery girl that violated me every Thursday night. For months.

You rewrote MY history.

You told me justice had been served—not just for me—for all the kids I saved from having to play her games. I was proud of that. I was public about that. I carried that win like a gold medal. If I could put my own abuser away at four years old, what couldn’t I do?

But, that was a fairytale.

You didn’t give me a happy ending. You kept a foundational truth from me for twenty-seven years. What’s even worse is just how much the real truth makes sense. Convicting a woman of first-degree criminal sexual abuse in 1998? At any point in history? In a small Midwestern town?

Yeah. No.

I need help understanding something.

One of the things you love most about me is how smart I am. I now have two master’s degrees and hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loan debt (dark jokes aside, learning is my favorite thing to do). I have spent my entire academic career learning how humans structure themselves in societies. Dissecting systems. Analyzing thinkers and architects of civilizations throughout history. Trying to understand what worked, what didn’t, and what might one day be applied in the most ethical way possible.

So when I go on one of my “political rants,” and you tell me to stop talking because I’m too much?

The system betrayed your daughter.

You betrayed me, too.

I’m really sorry we didn’t win, Mom.