Chapter 5 - The Little Girl on the Tape
My own voice sounded smaller than Hunter’s.
Higher.
Frightened.
A woman—Evelyn—spoke from somewhere close to the recorder.
“What does Daddy do when he gets angry?”
Silence.
Then eight-year-old me:
“He yells.”
“And hits?”
“No.”
A pause.
My mother’s voice changed.
“Abigail. Remember what we practiced.”
I stopped the recording.
My entire body was shaking.
“Play it.”
The therapist asked whether I was sure.
“Play it.”
The tape resumed.
Evelyn:
“Does Daddy hurt you?”
Child me:
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
A long silence.
Then:
“I forgot.”
My mother sighed.
“If you forget when the lady asks, Daddy might take Bertha away.”
That was the lever.
My sister.
Even at eight years old, I had been protecting someone.
The rest of the tape was worse because it was so ordinary.
Coaching.
Repetition.
Correction.
Not theatrical evil.
A mother teaching a frightened child which answers would make the adults do what she wanted.
Morales later obtained the old divorce docket.
My father had been accused of domestic violence and child mistreatment.
No criminal charges were ever filed.
But temporary custody restrictions were entered during the divorce.
Then Thomas moved to Idaho.
Evelyn told us he had abandoned us.
The court file told a different story.
For four years after the divorce, he filed repeated requests for visitation.
He wrote letters.
Paid support.
Asked for therapeutic reunification.
Eventually the petitions stopped.
“Why?” I asked Rachel.
“We don’t know.”
Bertha did.
When investigators confronted her with the tapes, she asked for an attorney.
Then she started crying.
“Mom told us Dad wanted to take Abigail and leave me behind.”
“Did you believe her?”
“When I was little.”
“And later?”
Bertha refused to answer.
That refusal shifted something.
My sister was no longer simply following Mother blindly.
At some point, she had learned the truth.
May you like
The question was when.
And why she helped Evelyn do the same thing to Hunter anyway.
