Sometimes, during a storm, Amy would have me rest my head on her stomach so I wouldn’t be afraid. I still remember how soothing it felt — the warmth of her skin and the steady comfort of her presence making me feel safe.

Amy was only 15 the first time she attempted suicide. She was rushed to a hospital about 15 miles from our home, where they pumped her stomach to remove the pills she had taken.

When she returned, I was terrified. She went straight to our room and curled up in the fetal position. I was told not to go near her. Standing at the doorway, I wept silently, afraid of what they would do to her next. She had committed the unforgivable act: drawing negative attention to herself and, in doing so, making our mother look bad. Amy was never the same after that day. She barely spoke for a long time.

Her high school picture that year was heartbreaking — sad and hollow, much like so many of my own school photos. I have often wondered whether we could identify abused children simply by looking at their school pictures. If only we could see the silent breaking of their souls in their eyes. You can certainly see it in many of mine, and unmistakably in Amy’s from that year.

At the time, I didn’t know her cry for help had been triggered by our mother’s husband, who had begun sexually molesting her. She had developed bulimia and anorexia, started sneaking out with boys, and smoking in the bathroom. Her innocence had been stolen. I discovered what was happening one day while walking down the hallway toward our bedroom. I saw him poke his head out of the bathroom and look around. I knew exactly what he was doing — because he had done it to me so many times before.

In our bathroom, right inside the door, there were mirrors. He would lift my shirt, fondle my developing breasts, and then quickly check to make sure no one was coming. My heart sank as I walked past and realized Amy was in there with him. I turned and hid in the closet. Moments later, she opened the door. We looked at each other with those big brown eyes, paralyzed by fear, but said nothing.

Even then, Amy remained a force of nature — beautiful, with long auburn hair and a bold love for alternative music. She would sing at the top of her lungs without caring who heard her. One of her favorite bands was Seven Mary Three, and she would sing their song “Roderigo” to me. You would have loved her; everyone did. I truly believed she would conquer the world. Yet in trying so hard to be strong for both of us, she gradually lost pieces of herself.

Storms come and go. Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain wreak havoc, and we hear about them on the news every day. But how often do we hear about the child abuse happening on our own streets, in homes right next door? Would we even recognize it if we saw it? Would we have the courage to speak out? These perpetrators exist everywhere, and far too many get away with it.

The collective blind eye turned toward sexual abuse within families must change. With all the advancements and innovations of our time, surely we can do better — we must do better — to protect the innocent.