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Abandoned : the true story of a little girl who didn't by Anya Peters

By Anya Peters

A heartbreaking real tale of 1 little girl's seek to discover a spot she may perhaps name home.

summary:

Separated from her actual mom at beginning, Anya grew up in terror of her drunken bullying uncle. overwhelmed, humiliated and sexually abused via him from the age of six, she suggestion her existence could not get Read more...

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Additional resources for Abandoned : the true story of a little girl who didn't belong

Example text

It was the same every weekend. Usually, when Mummy managed to send me up to bed with the rest of them—even if I was yelled back down again later and forced to sit there and listen to it—we’d lie there listening to them raging at each other, and to Mummy being hit defending her sister and fighting for me to stay. When he finally stormed off to bed himself, Mummy would sometimes creep to the long back bedroom that the five youngest of us shared, to see if we were all right. Despite her assurances, I still thought with every argument that this time it would happen, that he would see to it that I was sent from my family, over to Kathy in Ireland, who was almost a stranger to us then—the ‘whore’, whose visits I dreaded.

Just the mention of his name sent my uncle into a rage. We came to know him as our rich, kind Uncle Brendan, who never hit anyone or raised his voice and who always smiled and tried to get me to talk. He was the only man any of us ever knew, except for our headmaster, who wore a shirt and tie and shoes you could see your face in, every day of the week, not just to dress up to go to the pub in on a Saturday night. He was definitely the only man, Irish or otherwise, any of us knew who didn’t drink.

I know they thought it was my fault. Me the troublemaker again. Later, in bed, I’d burrow down into last night’s wet sheets and lie there crying, trying to find a way to stop the tears and everyone picking on me. But when I woke up in wet sheets again the next morning they’d start up again. It would be years before I stopped wetting the bed most nights. If he woke up in his armchair and heard us whispering around him, trying not to wake him, he would fly into one of his rages and his mantra would start up again.

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