My daughter and I were at Starbucks. While I was picking up our drinks at the bar, a pretty young woman sitting nearby looked up from her laptop and smiled at me.

“Does your daughter go to school with those girls?” she asked.

She meant the two sisters who, along with their mother -- a chic, model-thin blonde –- we'd briefly shared a table. Phoebe had invited herself to join the older sister, a fellow kindergartner from her school. They’re in different classes but sometimes play together at recess.

I explained this to the woman and asked if she knew them.

“My daughter went to the same preschool with them,” she replied.

I mumbled something about that being nice and headed back to Phoebe. Minutes later, the woman approached our table.

“I know this sounds weird,” she said. “But don’t ever let your daughter have a play date at their house.”

“Really?” I answered lamely.

“My daughter used to be best friends with Amy*. Something really bad happened to her at their house.”

“Oh. . . wow. I’m so sorry.”

The woman apologized for bothering us and went back to her table.

My head was spinning. Was she talking about the same “something really bad” I was thinking of? Or was it just my warped brain, always ready to concoct the worst possible scenario?

For once, I was glad when Phoebe wandered over to the display shelves to re-arrange the coffee mugs. I walked over to the woman.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I need to know a little more about what happened.”

Certain that the answer would be “no,” I asked in a whisper if her daughter had been molested.

I felt sick to my stomach as she slowly nodded. She couldn’t go into more detail, she explained, because she was still in the process of taking legal action against Amy’s father.

“My daughter’s not the same little girl,” she said softly.

As a mother, discovering that my child was molested in the home of a trusted friend is one of the most horrific situations I can imagine. I’m grateful this woman had the courage to say something to me, a complete stranger.

Yet, at the same time, I feel sorry for the mother of the sisters, too. We’d had a pleasant conversation. Like the other woman, she looked like any of the other dozens of attractive young moms I see daily at school, the park or Starbucks.

Maybe I’m naïve, but I want to believe that she hadn’t known what was going on under her own roof. Or maybe I’m just in denial about her inability to confront reality.

My gut tells me the woman’s story is true. But the fact is, I don’t know her or Amy’s mother. I talked to each of them for less than ten minutes.

What I do know is that whatever did or didn’t happen, two families are suffering. And the lives of three innocent little girls will likely be scarred forever.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

*Amy is a fictional name.

Labels: Dorothy O'Donnell

Stumble This Post