It’s a word I’ve been called over and over again because I chose to come out of the shadows and tell Eric’s story. My story. The dark one.
But I am not brave.
Brave would have been standing by my parents’ side when the held up protest signs outside of the Cathedral. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been attending all of the trials, hearings and facing his perpetrator. Looking him in the eye. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been telling this story years ago, not more than 12 years after the fact. But I didn’t.
Brave would have been shaking the Bishop’s hand, holding it tightly, and giving him a piece of my mind for orchestrating the cover up. But I didn’t.
I am not brave. I am like a soldier who rushes onto the battlefield long after the casualties have been counted. Sword thrusted in air. Battle cry ringing out years after the last blood was spilled. I am not brave. I’m just finally no longer a coward.