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20 years ago when my children were 7 and 11, they were raped by a neighbor child who was 13.When the police got involved, the family moved away quickly and I never had the chance to confront him or his parents. It was life-changing. Nothing was the same for my family again, and I spent the next 30 years feeling guilt about how I might have made different decisions that could have prevented the assault. In truth, I was a neglectful mother. My marriage was failing, I was drinking and I was depressed, consumed with personal pain and not attentive to my young kids. I was sleeping the day it happened… I had stayed up late the night before arguing with my husband and avoided going to bed until I knew he was asleep. My kids woke up early, fed themselves breakfast and set out to entertain themselves in the neighborhood. I was oblivious. It was my fault, and I knew it.I tried at the time, and for years after to do all the “right” things to help them through the trauma.I was driven by feelings of remorse, anger and a compulsive desire to fix or compensate for the problems my children have carried with them into adulthood. My daughter has learned to manage her feelings and has healed. My son never did. He has had a life fraught with emotional and legal problems and substance abuse.The youth responsible for the rape was, we believed, a good kid- likeable and from a good family. We trusted him.For 20 years, that boy was a monster in my mind,He became the focus of my anger and pain every time my son made some awful decision in his life that led to legal or personal troubles, and of course I always felt more guilt when it happened.Sitting alone one day, wallowing in worry and pain because my son’s marriage was in shambles, I looked up that boy on Facebook and tracked him down. He has a beautiful wife and 2 beautiful kids- a successful career and what seemed like a perfect life. As I looked over the pictures and posts, I felt myself becoming more angry and resentful. Why should this man have the best of everything when he stole those things from my kids?I contacted him and asked for the opportunity to talk with him. We scheduled an appointment. I was ready to live out my 30-year fantasy about having a confrontation. I was ready to berate him for the horror he created in my family.When the day arrived that I was to call him, I was really worked up…He answered the phone, and I fell silent.I had no words. He asked me what he could do to help me.So I said, “ We loved you back then. We thought you were a great kid. I want to know if you have grown up enough now to understand that what you did was rape. I want to know who you are today. I want to make you a human being in my mind again, and not a monster.”Travis cried. He remembers my kids, and he remembered the fun we all had together - and he remembered that something happened to change it all, but cant remember the details. He told me a story I never heard before:“I remember the day the police came to the door. I remember the look on my mother’ face. I remember the beatings...”He told me the story about how his bio father used to rape and beat his sisters and mother in front of him- until one day his mother finally gathered the courage to leave. They were homeless for a few years until his mom met his stepfather (the man we knew as his dad)- and once again, his mom was in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship…. She was deep in depression and fear, and allowed her kids to run the street unsupervised because she was never fully present emotionally or mentally.Today, Travis’ sisters abuse drugs and have had multiple pregnancies- one of the babies was born dead. Travis’ Mom is on her third marriage now, and has custody of her grandchildren because they would otherwise have suffered neglect and abuse at the hands of her daughter. Travis’ mom is suffering from terminal cancer…. she won't live to see his children grow up. His bio father lives in the same city but wants no relationship with him.Travis cried more as he told me his story. I cried. He let me tell him about my own suffering, and that of my children…When we came to the end of the conversation, he said this:“ Janet, I want to thank you for reaching out to me. I buried this for so many years that I forgot all about it… I spent 10 years in therapy and never even told the therapist. After we moved away, I came to a point in my life where I realized that if I didn’t make some changes, I would always be *that guy* that everyone hated. I dont want to be hated. I want to be a good husband, a good father and a good man.I won’t ask your forgiveness, but I do hope you can forgive me. I know I have caused you pain. I know I can never make it right….I won’t contact your kids; I will respect their wishes.…Please, if you think its appropriate, tell them that there is hope. It can be better. You can heal.And remember that as sons, we want to carry the burden of pain for our mothers. You have to heal yourself, too, Janet so that your son can let go.”I hung up the phone and cried.Everyone has a story. Everyone has pain. There are no monsters, just broken children and broken parents… and we were all victims. And we can all recover when we take responsibility for our lives.There is hope, when we choose Life.Forgiveness isn’t something we force or pretend. Forgiveness happens when we are open to it. Recovery happens when we believe it is possible.I told my kids about the phone call- they were shocked and emotional, and above all, they were happy that I found solace in it, and that I was unburdened.I forgave Travis that day.I forgave MYSELF.And being whole has made me a better mother.

The weirdness of this phone call resides in the fact that it was the last in a series of episodes which were very creepy, and the fact that I have never been able to adequately explain the phone call itself.My first year of college, my mother had to travel to another state repeatedly as she was in the process of both settling a small civil law suit and also preparing a house for sale. I stayed home alone a lot that year. Her trips were never shorter than two weeks, and never longer than a month. I had a series of odd events take place while she was gone, and they still don’t make a lot of sense.The first was that in the early hours of a weekday, someone tried to open my front door. A friend and I had fallen asleep watching television, and he was getting ready to go home. We were standing at the top of the stairs leading to my front door when we heard fabric rub against the door, and then someone tried turning the door knob. The door was locked, and the lock was a deadbolt. Someone sat and messed with the door, and then stopped. The police came, and found nothing.The second took place the Saturday night of that weekend. I had just settled into bed when someone standing outside my window, which was well above the ground, lit a cigarette. I again called the police, and they came. They found the still-burning cigarette and the matches, and also found footprints in the grass below my window which were from a very heavy man with a very long stride. One of the police officers, who weighed 240 lbs., showed me that even at his weight, he couldn’t leave as deep a flattened spot in the grass. He was also 6′3″, and could not match the stride length. They had a bunch of police, including one with a dog, come check my whole neighborhood. Nothing. A car stayed outside my house all night.The third was two weeks later, again on a Saturday night. I was watching TV in the family room when someone somehow managed to enter our back yard despite the noisy wooden fence, locked gates, and motion sensor lights. I had the sliding glass door open with just the screen closed—the staircase down to the patio 8 ft. below had been removed as we were going to have a deck built. Whoever he was, he was able to reach up and both scratch at the bottom of the screen door and then drum his fingers on it, with his wrist in view. He was extremely tall. Again, the police came, and again my neighborhood was searched, and again nothing turned up. A police officer with a dog parked his truck outside my house to spend the night watching and patrolling with his dog from time to time. Since he was a K-9 (dog) handler, there was a chance they’d be needed elsewhere that night. It was agreed that if he had to leave, the dispatch center would call me and someone would stay on the phone with me until another officer arrived. We agreed I would keep a phone with me at all times. The experience of watching someone’s hand at the bottom of the screen door, and knowing they were on the patio, made me so nervous I ended up soaked in sweat. I put the phone in the bathroom, grabbed some fresh clothes to sleep in, and went in the bathroom to take a quick shower and change. Just as I finished dressing, the phone rang. That bathroom had no windows and no skylight. There was no way someone could see in. I assumed the call was from the dispatch center, telling me that officer outside my house had to leave. I answered the phone with that in mind. This is what followed:Me: “Hello? Does he need to leave?”Him: “Well, hello, Love. And since you asked, yes, I’d like him to take that noisy dog of his and leave.”Me: “Who is this?”Him: “It’s me, Love.”Me: “Who is this?”Him: “I told you, it’s me.”Me: “I don’t know who you are, but I know you have to be in a house near me—the closest pay phone is blocks away.”Him: “And see, that’s where you’d be wrong. I’m not in a house, but I’m also not blocks away.”Me: “What do you want?”Him: “That silly doggy! He keeps putting his nose by the window, clouding it up.”Me: “Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck are you?”Him: “Ohhh. You’re a dirty one. Fancy a chat?”I hung up the phone. The problem was, he’d called me. When I picked the phone back up to call 911 again, he was still on the line.Him: “Nice dirty mouth, and but nasty attitude. I’m not sure I want to meet you.”And that’s when I paused, because I realized something. The man was definitely a native English speaker, but he was affecting an American accent. He’d said enough that I had heard the strange, not-quite-American vowel sounds which indicate a native English speaker from a different country trying to sound like an American. And he was using British expressions. He was good. So were my ears.Him: “Love, did I lose you? Or are you just dying to meet me?”Me: “I’m not dying to meet you. I think I’ll hang up.”Him: (long, low chuckle)Me: “Tell me something. Where are you from?”Him: “What do you mean?”Me: “You aren’t American. Where are you from.”Him: “Of course I’m American. I’m as American as you.”Me: “You’re very clever, but I’m clever, too. Where are you from.”Him: (Yelling) “Enough! This is codswallop! I’m closer than you think, and that’s all that matters right now.”The moment he said “codswallop,” I thought, “Bingo! He IS from the UK.” While I was processing that, he spoke again.Him: “You know? You’re quite unfriendly. Maybe I will just leave you alone. But tell me something, first.”Me: “What?”Him: “Why would a cute girl like you have on such a tatty T, with such nice boxers? Do you know that that tartan is called?”I was terrified then, because somehow, he had seen me. I knew there were no cameras in the bathroom—we hadn’t had a workman in the house in ages, and putting something in the wall or ceiling of the bathroom would have been difficult to do, as the walls, except the back one shared with the master bath, were quite thick. Additionally, I’d been up in the attic—the access panel was well hidden, and at the other end of the house—I knew the only things above me were joists and supports and insulation. The only thing I could think was that he’d somehow seen me take the clothing from my bedroom.Him: “Still there, Love? I asked you a question.”Me: “I’m not positive. I think it’s Black Watch.”Him: “And again, you’d be wrong. That’s Campbell, Love. Campbell Clan.”And he hung up. I immediately called 911. The officer in front of my house came to my door to check on me, and then stood outside with his dog to watch the street until other officers got there. They went to every house on my street. The houses facing our side backed on a quarry with a steep drop off just past their fence lines. It would be nearly impossible for someone to see in my window from our side of the street, because our house at that end was very close to the neighbor’s house. The only way you’d be able to see in the side window of my room was if you were in the house next door, looking out the nursery window, which was slightly offset from mine. Other sight lines were blocked by the rest of the neighbor’s house. Despite that, when waking everyone up across the street didn’t work, they did it on our side of the street, as well. Again, they turned up nothing. The did find a cigarette under the screen door on the patio, and it had burned down leaving a long line of ash. The dog sniffed in the area, and then they tried to find something for it to track, but it had no luck.I was very vigilant at school for the next little while, as well as just in general. I had seen that the mystery person was very tall, and had a very large hand. I had seen the flattened grass and long stride, which even a large police officer had not been able to match. I had seen the cigarette butts, and the matchbooks—both of them a plain, white kind sold in larger packages at grocery stores. I’d seen a lot, and heard a lot, and smelled a good deal of smoke. But no man ever turned up that matched what the police thought they knew. I had plenty of questions, and no answers.To this day, I cannot figure out how he knew what I was wearing. Even if he’d seen me take it from the drawer in my room, I doubt he’d have gotten a long-enough look to see the plaid of the boxer shorts. I also doubt he’d have seen just how tattered the T-shirt I grabbed actually was. Yet he was able to call me and talk about what I was wearing. To this day, I cannot explain it. Neither could any of the police officers who continued to check in with me for the two months that followed.That was in the spring. It was a couple of months later, just before summer break, that I realized there was one question I had which someone might be able to answer. A girl from my high school was studying art at the same university, and I knew she was very interested in textiles. I called her and asked her if she knew of anyone up there who would know the name of a tartan just by looking at it. She told me there actually was—there was a professor from England in the art department, and she frequently wore items of clothing made from various lesser-known (at least in the US) tartans. I might try her. I got her name, and took my boxer shorts and went to see her. I had the shorts in my bag while I explained I was wondering if she could identify the particular tartan for me. She said she probably could just on sight, as she’d gone to college in Scotland, and worked for a shop that sold both yardage and finished items like kilts to tourists. They’d had many, many patterns. Additionally, if she didn’t recognize it, she had a book that had many samples for reference. I pulled out the boxers and said, “Is this Black Watch?” She looked at it for a moment and said, “No, it’s not. It’s very close to one of the variants in the Black Watch family. This one is from a completely different family. It’s odd you ask, because this is the only one from its family that resembles Black Watch—it doesn’t really look much like the others in its own family. It’s called Campbell. Campbell Clan, to be exact.”I’ve had more than one weird phone call in my life. That one, that night, with that man, was the weirdest.Thank you for reading about my experience.

The same way you do it with any other phone:Log into your cellular provider’s website and download your monthly bills, which show how many calls you make each month.