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CHILDHOOD SHADOWS

There are certain memories the body tries to forget long before the mind understands what happened. They lie still for years—sometimes decades—tucked into corners where language has no access, waiting for a moment when the truth can surface without destroying you. Childhood has a way of holding both wonder and wounds side by side, never announcing which is which until much later.

When I look back now, I can see the shadows before I knew their names. But at ten years old, the world is still mostly made of instinct, innocence, and trust. I didn’t have the vocabulary for danger. I didn’t have the framework for betrayal. I only had a child’s belief that adults were protectors, not predators.

That belief did not survive the year I was ten. 

The Drive

It was a Friday, the kind that carries excitement on its edges. The sky held a polished blue hue, a gentle breeze threaded through warm sunlight, and everything felt paused in a quiet kind of yes. I was in fifth grade—old enough to crave independence but young enough to still need permission for everything. The weekend was here, and the plan was simple: spend the night at my best friend’s apartment down the road. Our childhood bond was strong, and we spent lots of time together. Sometimes her two younger siblings would play with us too. Her family felt familiar. Safe. Normal.

That afternoon, while my friend was at her dance class, her father came to pick me up for the slumber party her and I had gotten permission to have. He drove a beat-up family sedan with no bells and whistles, but that didn’t matter to me. All I cared about was hittin’ the road.

I’m from the south and all the folks here know about what we call a “southern goodbye”. It’s like a simple goodbye, but, stretched out at least 10 minutes. As expected, my mom stood in the driveway with us, chatting with him like two old friends.

Their small talk felt like long talk.

While they stood side by side laughing and talking, I remember impatience brewing under my skin, that childlike eagerness to go—to start the fun part of the weekend. As a kid, I was taught never to interrupt talking adults, it was considered rude and disrespectful. As my patience grew thin and my driveway skipping became an outlet for my excitedness, I tossed my manners to the side and belted out

“Come On! Let’s Go!”

In that setting, nothing about the moment suggested to me that I should be scared. Nothing told me that my life was about to divide cleanly into before and after because the proverbial outfit that resembles “stranger danger” wasn’t being worn.

When their conversation finally ended, I buckled myself into the front passenger seat. As we drove toward their family’s apartment, he mentioned stopping by the dance studio first to check whether my friend’s jazz class was finished.

It wasn’t.

We went in to check on her. I remember standing inside the studio building, pressing my face to the small observation window, watching her through the glass. She looked so graceful, so confident. Dance classes were something other families did—families with schedules and routines and structure. My own childhood didn’t include lessons or leagues. We weren’t that kind of household. I observed her with admiration, unaware that this would be the last moment that still felt innocent.

After the window watching session was over, her dad and I left the small neighborhood dance studio and got back in the well-worn family sedan.

But we didn’t go home.