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An open letter to the man who raped my wife

A jolting tale of incest, rape, and the strength to heal

 

ABOUT A WEEK after Ella got home, Bill was at the computer in the dining room when she put her hands on the countertop, looked down, and said, "I guess this is just my lot in life."

James Dankert

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Bill snapped. He felt nothing but pure rage. His fist exploded against the wall above the computer. Their little boy's eyes widened and he ran to Ella. She bent down to hug him.

Bill went outside and fell down in the snow, barefoot, in his shirtsleeves. He screamed and sobbed. He raged so hard that he lost his voice for three days.

The rape was pushing them apart. Ella didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted to move on. Rick was supposed to be her friend. Was he really capable of rape? And even if he was, how would it help her to know? She'd just feel stupid for trusting him. Maybe she'd done something to provoke it. Besides, he was her co-worker. She had her family and income to think about.

She read a book, The Courage to Heal. She wrote in her journal. Just once, when she was writing, she got really angry. Bill was so happy to see her feel rage, but then it faded away.

When it began to seem like Ella might not prosecute, he wrote to City Pages. Soon after, she told him that she had spoken to a detective and could call him if she decided to seek charges.

One month after the rape, Ella initiated sex with Bill for the first time since the attack. At first it was great, but then it started to get methodical. Bill whispered into her ear.

"I love you," he said.

Ella began to cry. She pulled away and left the room. Bill followed and embraced her.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said. Her tears embarrassed her. She wanted to be alone.

The next day, Bill left a note for her behind the bathroom faucet: You are loved. He was proud of her, for feeling safe enough to cry.

 

EACH NIGHT after Ella lay down to sleep, the night of the rape haunted her. She played back the details she could recall, searching for clues. What was the last thing she remembered? Who was she talking to?

Ella couldn't bear the thought of facing a court battle. It could drag on for years. The jury might not believe her. Maybe they would label her a slut, or say she was to blame. She'd dealt with those reactions from her family for years. She'd been through all this before. She and Bill had worked so hard to create their life together. Did they really have to lay everything aside to focus on this disruption—on this rape?

No. She wanted to move on. Maybe it was better to just try to heal.

Ella called Bill to tell him her decision.

He yelled at her. She was talking psychobabble. She was channeling her therapist's clichés. If she didn't prosecute, the rapist would hurt other women. If she didn't prosecute, he would avenge the crime himself.

"You shouldn't make me feel guilty or bad for not prosecuting," she said.

She hung up in frustration.

Later, he sent her an email. He loved her and didn't want their marriage to end. "I believe I too quickly wrote off the cliché from your therapist," he wrote, "and I apologize for it."

Several days before Christmas—about five weeks after that dreadful November night—Ella had a dream. In it, her assailant raped another girl. Ella could see the rapist, but she couldn't make out his face. In her dream, the girl died.

Maybe the dream was a sign.

Ella called and told Bill that she'd lied to him. She hadn't talked to detectives. She'd never filed a police report.

He said he'd already known. She'd always been a terrible liar.

  

WHEN THEY HAD MOVED to the Iron Range, Bill had seen his role so clearly. He was husband, father, and protector. His job was to keep his family safe.

The rape changed everything, and changed nothing.

He would love her. He would honor her. He would relinquish his desperate need to control her. And that meant that he would support her, even as she let the rapist go free.

We take strength at how pathetic you are that to have a woman, you have to rape a woman, you have to drug a woman.

We know with blazing truth the strength of true hearts and unshakeable courage. That is what we have, and what you never will now, coward.

We take the strength of confidence and honor.

The strength of family.

The strength of children.

The strength of marriage.

The strength of Love.

With honor and courage

—A Real Man.

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