It was a November day, just 11 years ago. The day was nice and ordinary; outside, it was a bit cold and gloomy, but still. I was making dinner in the kitchen when my 14-year-old son, Eirik, came to me. He looked worried, and I could see that he wanted to tell me something, but he was hesitating.

He looked at me, then down, then back at me again, and said, "Hey dad..."  

"Yes?" I replied. "What is it?"  

"Ahhhh, Charlen has been raped and she’s there now..."

I looked at my son, not understanding what he was saying.  

"What are you saying?" I asked.  

"Charlen has been raped and she’s there now."

I looked at him again and saw the hurt in his eyes. He was in pain, and it seemed like he really didn’t want to tell me this. I grabbed my head, trying to understand what he was saying. I kept hearing the words over and over, but I couldn’t process them. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. I’m having a nightmare...

Our family’s life was turned upside down overnight, and many years of pain would follow.

I stared out of the kitchen window and pinched myself. I looked at my son, standing there with his head bent. I sat down on the couch for a few minutes, trying to think, though I didn’t know what to think about. I asked Eirik if he knew when she was coming home. "No," he said. He couldn’t reach her. I tried calling her, but couldn’t get through.

Something I had never experienced before, or since, began to grow inside me. It was sinking in that my dear daughter had been raped, but I didn’t know anything anymore. Had it happened today? Was it happening now? What should I do? Should I call the police? At that moment, I couldn’t control my mind or body.

I went into a trance, acting without thinking. My body was shaking, and I was pacing the living room, crying and thinking about my daughter.

Eirik came to me and said Charlen was on a bus heading home. I drove to the bus station, just five minutes away, and waited. I didn’t know what to expect. Seconds passed. Buses arrived, people left, but no Charlen. Minutes passed, more buses came, but still no Charlen. I kept trying to call her, but there was no answer. "The hours" felt like they were dragging on as I sat in the car, looking into the mirror, shaking with anger, frustration, and tears.

Then, finally, she stepped off the bus. She saw me standing there and walked over, her face sad, her eyes downcast. She got into the car. I looked at her and said, "I know what happened. Tell me." 

She began to tell her story...