Justice For All: The Weight of Silence

As I reflect on my past and the scars that remain, there is something I have carried for decades that I can no longer ignore. I was abused and sexually violated throughout my childhood by my father, an experience that shaped me in ways I am still unraveling. Years later, my child also suffered at the hands of the same man—a horror that resulted in my father going to trial for his crimes, and ultimately to jail. Yet through it all, one of my younger brothers, who is now a family court judge, has remained silent. Well not exactly silent—after my father's death, he publicly praised him on social media.

Growing up, I had six brothers. In addition to my father, one of my older brothers also violated me during my teenage years. To this day, I do not know if any of my brothers were similarly abused by our father, but if they were, no one has ever spoken about it publicly—at least not to my knowledge. My son and I remain the only ones who have come forward about the abuse we endured. This silence leaves me with unanswered questions and a sense of isolation, as though the burden of this history rests solely on us. My focus for this article is only on my brother that is four years younger than me.

When we were growing up, I was the one who took the brunt of the abuse, while it seems my younger brother was shielded from that pain. When he was a baby, my aunt was pushing him in a carriage, and I ran into the road and was struck by a car. At four years old, he got behind the wheel of our family car, and pulled down on the gearshift. The car rolled down the driveway, across the street, and hit the corner of the neighbor's house—I took the blame. I chauffeured him around when I got my license and carried the burden of our father's darkness while he was given the chance to pursue his dreams. He became a lawyer, then a judge, while I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered childhood and twenty years later, face the devastation wrought on my own child.

For over forty years, as an adult, he has not spoken a single word of gratitude for the sacrifices I made, whether intentional or circumstantial. Instead, the only time he confronted me about the past was during my grandmother's funeral to accuse me of giving him a smoke of weed when he was twelve—something I do not even recall, though it is possible. If I did, I was just a sixteen-year-old child myself, living in the same toxic environment he was—but, I was trying to survive each and every day. Yet that seems to be the one memory he has chosen to hold onto, rather than acknowledging the horrors I endured or the ways I shielded him from the same fate.

During a hardship, I lost the ability to stay connected with my son after this brother convinced me to sign a legal document I didn’t fully understand. My parents then cut off direct communication, and I was only able to reach my son through his school. Much like myself as a child, my son kept quiet about the abuse he was enduring. While my child was being abused over a six year period, my brother lived on the same property as our father, my son's grandfather, yet my brother apparently was unaware of what was happening. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps he was too busy pursuing his career and building his life to notice. But his silence speaks volumes. It is not just about what he did not know then, but it is about what he refuses to acknowledge even now.

To make matters worse, my brother aided the defense team during my father’s trial for the abuse of my child. Even when presented with DNA evidence of the crimes, my brother chose to stand by the man who destroyed both my childhood and my son’s. Now, as a judge in family court, he sits in a position where he decides the fate of children. I cannot help but question how someone who has remained silent about the abuse in his own family—someone who hasn’t even acknowledged the pain others endured—can be trusted to make decisions that impact vulnerable children.

I recently came across a microcassette labeled “the confrontation with my dad 12/6/93 10:30 pm." It is a recording of a conversation between my father and me, but I do not remember anything about it—not making the call, not the confrontation itself, not what was said, and not how it ended. Unfortunately, I don’t have a player to listen to it, and given my financial situation, I am unsure if it is worth buying one. If the tape contains an admission, it could be a powerful piece of evidence when I confront my brother, dispelling any claims that I am acting out of jealousy. But if it holds only a denial, it won’t help me at all in that matter—other than proof that I spoke out over thirty years ago—the year before my son went to stay with his grandparents.

Confronting my brother publicly, especially in a letter to the editor in the county where we grew up and he now presides over family court, is not something I take lightly. It is a decision born out of years of silence, pain, and unresolved questions. I feel that, as a family court judge, my brother holds a position of great responsibility—one that impacts the lives of vulnerable children and families. His silence about the abuse that occurred within our family, and his decision to stand by our father despite knowing the truth, contradicts the values he is sworn to uphold in his professional role.

I feel like my brother owes me more than silence. He owes me acknowledgment, gratitude, and accountability. I shielded him, whether knowingly or not, from the horrors of our father’s abuse. I carried the pain while he was supported, nurtured, and given the freedom to become a lawyer, a judge, and someone with the power to shape lives. I warned him to protect his own daughters, not realizing gender was not a factor which would become evident years later. Or, maybe I didn't shield him, and he was abused, too.

For over forty years, my younger brother has offered nothing but silence—and worse, complicity. It is time to stop pretending that silence is neutrality. It is not. Silence enables harm. And as I wrestle with the decision of whether to confront my brother publicly, I know my story deserves to be told, and the truth deserves to be heard. Years ago, I gave my brother a graduation gift inscribed—Justice For All. Ephesians 5:11

“Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”