The Night of Confession

When The Molester Confessed To Me…

At last, after ten long years, he confessed his mistake to me—the one that had haunted him for years. But, unsurprisingly, the same mistake he inflicted upon me still haunts me to this day.

Yes. I am talking about sexual abuse. And what makes it even more horrifying is that the abuser was none other than my younger cousin brother.

When it happened, I was 17, and he was 13. I had visited his house—our maternal grandparents’ home—on a weekday. We ended up sleeping on the same bed, which is common in many families in Kerala. Most of that night is a blur, perhaps my mind’s way of escaping, but I do remember some of it.

I recall waking up in the middle of the night, feeling pressure—as if someone was squeezing my breast. Horror gripped me when I realized it was him. He wasn’t acting in his sleep; he was doing it deliberately. When I tried to push his hands away, he pleaded, “Please, chechi (sister), please let me do it…”

I was petrified. Frozen. Every part of me was paralyzed except for my heart, pounding in my chest, and my eyes, trembling with fear and disgust. I don’t remember the rest of that night. Maybe I forced him away, maybe I pushed or pinched him. The next day is lost to me as well.

I couldn’t talk to anyone about it because I already knew what the response would be. I had no friends who would understand, and my family wasn’t even an option. I was left frustrated, suffocated by memories that filled me with shame.

Eventually, I confided in one of my older cousins, someone I thought I could trust. His response left me speechless. According to him, if I hadn’t been okay with what happened, I would have reacted in the moment. He couldn’t comprehend how I had been too paralyzed to move because he had never experienced anything like it. Then he added something that broke me further—if it had been my sister instead of me, she would have at least punched the boy so he’d never dare do it again.

I felt blamed. I felt doomed. And after that, I never dared to speak up again.

Later, I tried talking to the boy’s sister, who was my age. I thought maybe I could warn her, and prevent her from experiencing the same. But to my shock, she begged me to keep it a secret. She was terrified that if anyone found out, her brother’s image in the family would be ruined.

That’s when I learned the brutal truth: being molested was my problem, my shame, my mistake to bear alone.

It happened. And though I managed to push it to the edges of my mind, it had already taken something from me—my self-confidence. I began to wonder if something about me invited this, if I gave men the wrong impression. Though I had faced harassment before and after this incident, this was the one that changed me. It made me afraid of men, no matter their age. I started building walls, distancing myself from male friends. Every time I was around a man, I felt like he was looking at me through the eyes of a molester.

Over time, I learned to act like nothing had happened. I forced myself to be friendly with him again—though deep down, I was still afraid. Then, one night in 2020, we were in the same room again, and he asked me, “Do you still remember?”

I felt fear and discomfort, but also a strange relief. We ended up talking for hours. He confessed that now, as someone in a relationship, he realized how horrific his actions had been. He also admitted something else—he had planned that night in advance. Worse, he had been encouraged by other cousins his age, boys I had trusted and remained friendly with even after that night.

That night, I told him I had almost forgotten. That I was glad he confessed—because most of the men who had molested me never did. But the truth? I didn’t feel relief. I felt terror.

Because there are still more cousins. More boys from my own family who had urged him on. And I don’t know what’s inside their minds.

It took me three months to write this. Because some wounds, even when invisible, never fade. So forgive me if I used too many ‘I’s. Right now, that’s all I can think about.

Extra:

In India, many girls face violations not only in public spaces but within their own families.

Being a woman in a deeply patriarchal society is exhausting. But we need to remember—the problem isn’t with women. The problem is with the men who molest, assault, and rape. It’s not just women who suffer. Men rape children. Men rape trans people. Men rape even animals.

The issue is not what women wear, where they go, or how they behave. The issue is the mindset that allows men to feel entitled to others’ bodies.

We want to walk freely on the roads, enjoy tea at night stalls, and wear skirts and shorts.

And what if we choose to become truck drivers?

It’s time to change the narrative.