The house smelled of fresh baked bread and memories, but not all the memories were happy one’s. The house and the family that lived inside had secrets, painful secrets that haunted them often as they tried to sleep at night. Memories that had a way of gnawing at someone’s very soul and secrets that were bound to tear the very picture of this seemingly near perfect family apart.
I did not want to become tangled up in these secrets, but I became close to them through my church but even that was a rouse, it seemed everything I knew about them was a rouse. It was not the beautiful family that it appeared, three beautiful daughters, two beautiful sons, and a father who seemed to adore his girls.
Maybe he adored his girls to much, and there had been another child another little girl who had died in suspicious circumstances under this mans care.
I wish I had done things a lot differently when I first this families story, perhaps things would have turned out differently.
I guess we all tend to look at things differently in retrospect.
There are times that it seems I bend under pressure, but I never imagined that I would bend in this way. That I would keep secrets like this, secrets like this aren’t meant to be kept, they are meant to be stopped.
This is not my story, but in a way it is, it is the story of how dangerous not telling when someone is in danger can be…