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March 27, 2026.

The day my abuser died. I am in my late thirties. I have not had any contact with my abuser since I was fifteen years old. Two decades later, instead of searching the Jail Mugs for his picture to see if he was arrested for yet another DUI, I found his obituary.

At first, I only read the death notice in the paper; a simple, few sentence notification to the world that a man had died. I truly believed, at the time, there would be nothing else. I couldn’t imagine how anyone would ever write a thoughtful, well-thought-out, obituary about a man who had done what he did. The story of a man who picked a star right out of the sky, and completely detroyed it.

And yet…

A few days later, I read his obituary. I read about a man who was “loved”, and who “loved animals”, and who was faithful, and loving, and altogether a “good man”. I read messages from those who left condolences who offered the same sentiments, and it sent me into a complete and utter spiral, for weeks. Honestly, months later, I’m still drowning in it.

Because what do you mean I’m almost forty years old and I am still trying to navigate the healing from physical, emotional, mental, and sexual abuse from the same man they speak of in the paper?

What do you mean I never got closure for the things that still bring me nightmares in my sleep, two decades after they happened?

What do you mean he was “loved”?

Admittedly, I never disclosed. The one time I tried, I was brought to the school counselor’s office in 6th grade and made to feel like I was crazy, starving for attention, and making it up?

What do you mean I lost all of my friends that year, got labeled “weird” for the first time ever, and learned very quickly that I had to enter a life of survival rather than I life that typical 11-year-old would be facing?

What do you mean I had to choose between the life of all the “unknowns” at 11 years old, or staying with my mom?

“Loved”.

That is how his obituary read.

And yet, I could only picture the gun he pointed in my face because I managed to steal my mom’s purse back from him.

And yet, I could only picture him trying to kill my mom while I jumped on his back and begged for her life.

And yet, I could only picture him dragging my brother down exactly thirteen stairs from our bedrooms to the living room while my mom was at work and then beating on him until I grabbed my brother and ran, barefoot, through the snow to my neighbor’s outside play set to safely hide for a couple of hours until our mom got home?

But he was “loved”.

And I am all but forgotten, because of him.

And that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Because I grew up the “weird” kid because I was angry. I was physically, mentally, and sexually assaulted from the time I hit the double digits of my life. I spent my childhood trying to navigate survival rather than trying to make friends. That carried on through adulthood.

He died. I lived, kind of.

I’ve yet to figure out who made out better in the end.

Navigating life after abuse is strange. I spent two decades of my life in fear I’d run into him and what I would say if I did.

Now he’s dead, and I’m still left to navigate how to live. And yet, nothing has changed.

I still look for him around every corner and in every public place, which is crazy, because I know he died. But I’m not any less terrified.

I have a daughter now. She’s a wildflower, and beautifully and remarkably free. I haven’t figured out how to be happy for her without being sad for “little me”. She doesn’t know survival, but it’s all I’ve ever known. Navigating that has been one of the greatest challenges of my life. Because while I continue to “live”, I died a long, long time ago.

“Loved”.

That’s how his obituary reads.

And I don’t know if I can come back from that. “Loved” killed the girl, the woman, I was always meant to be.

And he’s just…

dead.