The first step to justice was telling my story
As my family walked along the beach, I trailed behind. My stepdad, Richard, then 30, looked over his shoulder.
‘Come on, sweetie,’ he smiled, reaching to take my hand.
It was 1992, and we were enjoying a family holiday in Cornwall.
Aged 10, I absolutely loved my new stepdad.
He’d only been in our lives for a year.
My mum, then 30, and my biological dad split when I was a baby.
Richard was the father I never had.
Always attentive and loving to Mum.
Caring towards me. Never shied away from cuddles, either.
But over time, he became more touchy-feely, always tickling me or play fighting.
Then one day in 1996, when I was 14, I was home alone with Richard.
As I sat on my bed, he walked in, sat next to me.
He felt my breasts, put his hands inside my trousers.
‘This is what people do when they love each other,’ he whispered.
Confused, I stayed silent.
Was this just something that dads did?
Afterwards, it happened whenever Mum was at work.
Months later, when I was playing in the garden, Richard came out and took me to my bedroom.
This time, he climbed on top of me and forced himself on me.
Pain tore through me, my virginity taken.
After that, he pounced at every chance.
‘You’re my special girl,’ he’d whisper.
Gradually, Richard got braver, cornering me all over the house.
‘No one will believe you,’ he warned.
And I believed him.
In 1998, I left school for college but he sulked whenever I saw my friends.
‘Can’t you just stay home?’ he scolded.
I ended up quitting the course I was taking.
By now, I was really scared of Richard.
He could be aggressive, even violent, if he didn’t get his own way.
I felt trapped.
Then, aged 18, in 2000, I moved out.
Desperate to escape I sofa-surfed at friends’ places, getting my own flat later that year.
It’s all behind me now, I thought.
But just days after I’d moved in, I heard a knock at the door.
Richard.
‘I’m coming in,’ he said, towering over me.
In my new flat, he didn’t waste any time.
Doing what he had always done.
I froze, wishing it’d end. But I was powerless.
Over the next few years, I’d come to dread his visits.
He’d tell Mum he was popping in to visit me between his taxi driving shifts, and once he was here he’d abuse me.
I was 21 by now. A grown woman in my own home.
But Richard made me feel like I was still that trapped little girl.
In January 2005, I met Sean, then 18, through friends.
I was closed off at first, afraid to
