I used to compare the size of my hands to my father’s. His were so much bigger than mine, it amazed me. It amazed me more then his towering height or his girth, which I always assumed were what dads looked like, not that I would look like that too, when I was a grown man.

I guess it wasn’t long into my life, as lives go, when it began. It was slowly at first. Things he would say when we were alone, or looks he would give me. Then it became physical. It was then that the size of his hands no longer amazed me, but terrified me. As did that trademark dad height and girth.

It went on for years and years, and everyone knew. How could they not? It had to of been obvious. I tried to make it obvious. I know at least my mother saw the marks on me.

No one did anything though, so I didn’t say a word either.

It was the cause for a lot of my problems I guess. I was so introverted and aggressive. I wanted to think I had gotten over it though, that I had moved past it. I could hold down a job, I got married, I was normal like everyone else. I even had a child.

And watching my wife give birth was one of the best moments of my life. No, it was the best.

I promised my son the moment that I held him in my arms that things would be different. Every other child in the hospital might go home with abusive or neglectful parents, but not him. He was going to have the most loving, attentive, and safe upbringing ever.

And I couldn’t keep my promise.

It wasn’t long into his life, as lives go, when I began. It was slowly at first. Things I would say when we were alone, or looks I would give him. Then it became physical. It was his size that terrified and excited me. My son’s small and soft body.

It’s been going on for years now, and no one knows. How can they? I’ve made sure it isn’t obvious.

It’s usually in the night I go to him. Sometimes he says it hurts, but sometimes he doesn’t say a thing, and I know it doesn’t hurt at all. Sometimes it feels good.

I know, because I’ve been there.