When I was 13, I had waited 18 months to testify against my first child molester.

On the stand, I recall the defense attorney asking me if I knew for certain if the molester knew it was me he was hurting with one sex act, at that moment, or if the defendant could have thought it was his daughter.

Even at 13, I remember being dumbfounded that the attorney thought this question made his case stronger for his client. I remember thinking that if I wondered that, I couldn’t be alone. Even then I remember thinking I was smarter than that man.

“Why would that have been any better?” And the jury, you could hear them gasping with a few muffled cries from the same Montgomery County Court House Cosby was convinced in. I heard them from the stand.

After I stepped down from the stand, it was before lunch the second day of the trial. I remember being dismissed for a break. We all needed one. My rayon shirt that was soft and teal, was wet from my own tears. This defense attorney apologized to my father and said, “this is the worst part of my job,” and scuffled off without an apology, though he clearly felt like a worm. He never looked at me because I guess I’d be a conflict of interest. I never knew.

I have always questioned when things were wrong. My entire life I have asked questions if I had them and questioned those who had authority over me.

I have to think that the 13 year old girl in me who questioned one dumb man would be proud of the woman I am 30 years later. She’s desperately trying to overcome what her first offender did, only now her questions do more than bring tears or gasps.

I’d like to think that her questioning everything has saved her life. I’d like to think that so I think I will. This is my story, so I get to think that if I need to.